


Every Good Thing

by erebones



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Background Bodhi/Cassian, Background Relationships, F/F, Family, First Meetings, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, background jyn/leia, sort of??, what is canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-02 19:45:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 72,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10225730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: Baze is a tattoo artist with a cat and an adopted daughter. Chirrut is a professor with a seeing eye dog and a penchant for getting in trouble with the law. Will they find love???? (yes, the answer is yes)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written with zero regard for canon, so if you like your fics all nice and orderly without AU fuckery, press on, friend. If, however, you enjoy fics with strong political themes, gay asian space dads finding love in a tattoo shop, and erstwhile rebel teenagers getting up in arms about the government, read on. I wrote about half the story on my trip to Guatemala, so I'm editing as I go and I want to try posting a chapter every few days. 
> 
> WARNING: this contains a particular type of tattoo that is actually deliberate scarification. I gloss over the description of it being done, but be warned that this occurs a couple times in the first few chapters.

Baze checks the clock again. It’s almost four in the afternoon, and the studio is cool and quiet, grown slow in the latter hours of a weekday. The only other person here is Bodhi—Baze can hear him rattling around in the back, cleaning the equipment from his last job. Another satisfied customer, another tally mark in Bodhi’s favor. Baze admits, in the privacy of his own head, that he was a little reluctant to promote him to full-time artist, but Bodhi hasn’t let him down yet. Even if he is occasionally… overzealous.

He flips to the latest page in his appointment book, leaning his hip against the counter with a frown. _Chirrut Îmwe_. It’s Bodhi he has to blame for today’s consultation. If the boy had just _asked_ before putting this Îmwe character down for a deposit… He sighs and shuts the book. He can’t pin this entirely on Bodhi. He’s a talented tattoo artist, but when Jyn can’t man the front desk, Bodhi steps in, and he doesn’t know all the protocol yet for vetting potential clients. A shame, because Baze hates to scare away customers, but _zama-shiwo_ isn’t for the faint of heart.

What Baze should have done is call the client back and clear everything up, but Bodhi had looked so crestfallen at the prospect that Baze relented. Which leaves him now at the counter of his humble tattoo parlor in Lower South Jedha, waiting for the man written into his appointment book to make an appearance.

Just as the minute hand is starting to drift past four o’clock, the bell at the front door chimes brightly and someone steps through. Some of Baze’s apprehension fades just looking at him. He isn’t young, like he’d feared, nor does he look particularly touristy or rebellious— _alternative_ , as Jyn would say. He looks to be around Baze’s age, in fact, and Jedhan through and through, wearing a faded black tunic in the local style over his jeans, his dark hair kept short and his skin as warm and golden as the salt sands that ebb and swell to the north of the city.

More pressingly, he’s brought a dog in with him. _What on earth were you thinking, Bodhi?_ Baze clears his throat. “Welcome to InkJedha,” he says, keeping an eye on the German Shepherd standing at attention beside its master. The only thing preventing him from telling the fellow off is the working harness the dog wears. And then when Baze chances another look up, he sees that the man’s eyes aren’t brown or a deep gold, or even grey like Jyn’s—they’re a cloudy blue, blotted with cataracts or perhaps some other injury, and crinkling into a slow smile.

“Oh, hello there. Goodness, you’re quiet—I wasn’t sure if anyone was home.” He releases the dog’s harness and says, quietly, “Stay, Echo.” The dog sits just to the side of the door, leaving its owner to make his way forward, a cane sweeping the floor in front of him with swift, precise motions. He stops when it hits the counter and extends his hand in Baze’s general direction. “Chirrut Îmwe. I believe I spoke on the phone with your receptionist—Bodhi, wasn’t it?”

“Baze Malbus, and yes, you did. Though I tend to call him ‘trouble’ more often than anything else.”

Chirrut laughs, and the ears on his dog prick forward and back alertly, belying its placid expression. “I see. May I surmise that this is a bad time? I’m certainly happy to reschedule.”

“Not at all—timing isn’t the issue.” He clears his throat and gives the spiel he’d already prepared in his head. “ _Zama-shiwo_ is a very old and very difficult kind of tattoo, and generally when people call to inquire I like to personally go over the procedure and the risks involved.”

He’s not done, but Chirrut is already waving him off. “I understand your concern, Mr. Malbus, but I assure you I’m quite familiar with the art—as familiar as one can be without practicing it, at least. I teach at Jedha University, you see. History department. I wrote my thesis for my PhD on the Temple of the Whills.”

Baze lifts his eyebrows, reluctantly impressed. Hardly anyone has even heard of the Whills anymore these days, let alone their ruined temple. “Then you probably know even more than I do. Here, let’s sit in my office and we can talk details. Um. Feel free to bring…”

“Ah yes. Echo, my seeing eye dog. I assure you she won’t be in the way.” He snaps his fingers and the dog stands up again, pacing over to stand at his side. She leans against his leg just slightly as if to let him know she’s there, and Chirrut scoops up her harness. “Lead on.”

Baze’s “office” is more of a studio space, but it also boasts a chair and all the equipment for clients who prefer privacy, and a comfortable sitting area in the corner for consultations. A skylight lets in plenty of natural light, and there’s a burgeoning firestick plant on the desk that Jyn gave him for his birthday last year. He sits in the chair he thinks of as _his_ , an old velvet-upholstered armchair that’s been patched and repatched many times over the years, and glances at the dog. Feeling foolish, he points to the other chair and says, “There’s a seat just ahead of you and to the right a bit.”

Between the dog and the cane, Chirrut finds his seat easily and sits, crossing one leg over the other. Echo lays down primly beside the chair only when he commands, and he props his cane across his lap, one ear tilted in Baze’s direction. “I like this room,” he announces before Baze can say anything. He lifts his face slightly to the warm evening glow pouring down from overhead, as if he can feel the light on his skin. “It’s very peaceful. Do you have a plant in here?”

“Ah, yes, actually. How did you know?”

“I can smell the dirt under all the antiseptic.” He nods approvingly. “You run a very tight ship, Mr. Malbus, I’m glad to see my recommendation was well-founded.”

“Just Baze, please. And may I ask who recommended you?”

“A mutual acquaintance, Maz Kanata? I was lamenting the lack of _zama-shiwo_ in the city and she passed your name along.”

Baze isn’t surprised. Maz has recommended plenty of people to his shop over the years, although very few for _zama-shiwo_. She has her own piece, small but intricate on the backs of her hands, but she knows how to read people even better than Baze does and knows when someone will be able to handle the process, and when they won’t. If she thinks Chirrut is up for it, then he trusts her judgement. He makes a mental note to call her up later, and begins the way he always does:

“So, why _zama-shiwo_? Why not a regular tattoo?”

Chirrut smiles. “How kind of you to ask, and not assume. I have two reasons: first, my studies have made me very interested in the practice and in preserving what is left of it. Preserving history is what I _do_. And second, well.” He spreads his hands. “I’m blind. Normal tattoos can sometimes raise the skin for a short while, but it doesn’t last, unless the artist is _really_ bad at their job.” He smirks. “I’ve been assured that you are not. _Zama-shiwo_ , done in the traditional way, is the intentional, precise scarification of the flesh to create designs that can be felt as well as seen. I’m not really the type to beautify myself for others’ benefit, so why would I get a tattoo that I couldn’t see?”

“Fair enough,” Baze says, belatedly jotting down a few notes. There’s something about the way Chirrut speaks that draws him in—the movement of his hands, the animation in his face. Despite the lack of eye contact, Baze finds it hard to break away. “I apologize in advance—I always ask the same questions at every consultation like this. What do you know about _zama-shiwo_ , apart from what you’ve already told me?”

Chirrut smirks a little wider and settles back in his chair for the long haul.

The next hour is one of the most interesting consults that Baze has had in a long time. Chirrut, as promised, is well-read and appreciative of the _zama-shiwo_ art. He describes its history to Baze, some of which he knows from books and what he learned from his own mentor, but the new perspective is enlightening and sets Baze’s fingers itching to begin.

It’s going to be a big project. Chirrut is very emphatic about the design: an archaic starbird shape drawn in raised dots and lines across his back and shoulders like unfurled wings. It’s an old symbol of rebellion and the search for truth, two things he holds close to his heart.

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for rebellious,” Baze says, remembering his first, shallow impression of Chirrut standing in his doorway.

Predictably, Chirrut laughs. “Give it time. The truth will come to you.”

Baze sees him out afterward and spends the rest of the night at the drawing table. Bodhi ducks out around seven, locking the door behind him, and if there’s a hint of smugness on his face, Baze pretends not to see it.

///

Under normal circumstances, Baze would spend a few weeks working on sketches, remaining in close contact with the client to be sure that they were receiving a design as close to their vision as possible. These are not normal circumstances. To that end, he enlists Jyn in helping him devise a way for Chirrut to “see” the evolving design with his hands.

“I knew tech school would come in handy one day,” she says triumphantly, just a few hours before his next meeting with Chirrut. A thick sheet of paper is spread out over his desk, cut to mimic the torso of a man. Using some hijacked equipment from her trade school, Jyn was able to feed Baze’s design into a computer and run the paper through a special printer that punched a relief of the design into the thick fibers. Running his fingers carefully over the paper, Baze nods in satisfaction.

“It’s not exactly like the real thing, but it’s damn close. Good work, Jyn.”

She practically glows with pride, and Baze squeezes her shoulder once before rolling up the sheet for storage. There’s definitely something to be said for community service. A few months ago he doesn’t think she would have agreed to even take a look, and here she is dipping her toes into the business like it’s her day job. Well--it sort of _is_ her day job, but only part time, and only so that Baze can keep a closer eye on her when she’s not at home.

“Who’s the client?” she asks, packing up her equipment. He’s pretty sure she borrowed it with permission, but he’s decided not to ask. “I don’t remember any blind people coming in these last few days.”

“You were in class, so Bodhi took the call. Chirrut Îmwe, he’s a professor at Jedha University.”

The black equipment case closes with a sharp snap and Jyn stands up straight, mouth gone thin and white. “Right. Well, I gotta split, this needs to be returned before seven. I’ll see you later.”

Baze opens his mouth to tell her she’s got hours ‘til seven, and why the hell is she being so conscientious _now_? But she’s out the door before he can formulate the words. Shaking his head, he lays a protective sheet over the paper and grabs his phone to check his calendar. One more client between now and four thirty, and then Chirrut will be here.

When the man himself enters his shop later that day, Baze’s excitement has turned to nerves. This whole scenario is highly unusual. What if he doesn’t like the design and Baze has to start over? What if the touch-print doesn’t work for him and he decides Baze’s hefty estimate for the project isn’t worth it?

He thinks he’s doing pretty well at keeping professional, even with the giant dog staring at him with her judgemental amber eyes, but Chirrut notices anyway. “You’re thinking very loudly,” he tells him, and Baze laughs rustily.

“You should have told me you read minds, Master Îmwe. Save me the trouble of getting this touch-printed.”

Chirrut’s mouth drops open and Baze feels some of his apprehension fade. “Did you really?” Chirrut asks, sounding touched.

“Of course. How else was I supposed to get your approval for the design? Here. If you don’t mind?”

Chirrut reaches out his hand in reply. His skin is warm and smooth when Baze takes it, but the palm is calloused, more the hands of a working man than a scholar. Baze wonders at this, and places his hand palm down on the paper.

Chirrut inhales and goes still. He leans his cane against the worktable and spreads out both hands, seeming to drink in the shapes lifted on the paper. It’s intricate, as he had requested—Baze estimates at least six months before its completion to allow ample healing time between sessions—and Chirrut takes his time, feeling out each dot and wrinkle with a patient touch. It takes effort, but Baze holds back from explaining his thought process, spellbound by the intensity of Chirrut’s focus.

At last Chirrut leans back and sighs, as if satiated by a long drink of water. “Baze, this is… everything I had hoped for and more. Tell me, do you believe in the Force?”

The question seems to come from nowhere, and he isn’t sure how to answer. “I… suppose so. I can’t say I’m a very religious man.” Jedha as a rule isn’t a very religious city, anymore, but he feels a strange sliver of guilt to admit it. “Why do you ask?”

Chirrut’s mouth does something complicated, like he’s holding back from saying what he really thinks. Then it smooths again, and he says, easily, “Just curious. It’s a very out-of-date way of thinking, I know. I wouldn’t be offended if you’d laughed in my face at such a question. The truth is, my particular branch of study is rife with it, and though I know many of the old ways are lost, I… well. _Zama-shiwo_ is a lost art, and yet here you are. It’s very serendipitous, isn’t it?”

“Do you… practice?” Baze asks hesitantly, still wrong-footed.

“I would not know how—we have so few sacred texts left.” His voice is unspeakably sad, and Baze feels his heart ache in reply for something he can’t name. “But I do what I can to… pay my respects, I suppose.”

“How so?” he prompts when Chirrut seems reluctant to continue.

“Meditation, mostly. This.” His fingers graze the paper again, and it draws a fleeting smile to his face. “And martial arts, to hone my physical and mental focus. Did you know,” he pipes suddenly, “that _zama-shiwo_ was once connected to that practice? Or so I believe. The monks who worshipped the Whills had a specific hierarchy, and all my research seems to indicate that the advancement of their physical prowess was marked outwardly, by the _zama-shiwo_ rituals.” He subsides for a moment, face closing off a little. To Baze, it feels as if a cloud has passed over the sun. “Forgive me, this is hardly the place for my rambling. I know I can be difficult to shut up when I get going, and you must have other work to do.”

Shaken from the comfortable position of listening to Chirrut’s melodic voice, Baze shakes his head. “No! I mean, you don’t have to stop, this is fascinating.”

Chirrut gifts him a small smile, a private humor that curls in the corners of his mouth. “You are very kind. Are you quite certain you have the time to listen to me jabber?”

“It’s my shop, isn’t it? If I say I have time, I have time.”

As if to mock his certainty, there comes a tap on the half-open door and Bodhi pokes his head inside. “Baze? Sorry to interrupt, but someone’s here for touch-ups…?”

Baze shuts his eyes to the sound of Chirrut’s laughter. “I’m sorry, I…”

“There is nothing to be sorry for, my friend. The conversation will keep.” Chirrut reclaims his cane and Echo’s harness and makes for the door, but pulls up short when Baze touches his elbow.

“I don’t want to assume anything, or impose, but tomorrow is my off day. If you wanted, maybe we could continue this discussion over coffee?”

Chirrut has been perfectly polite and effusive up ’til now, but at this he positively _glows_. Grinning so wide his gums show, he adjusts the angle of his stance to take Baze’s hand in his. “You have my number, yes? Text me tomorrow and I’ll let you know when I’m free. I have a few things to take care of at the office in the morning, but no classes.”

“Good,” Baze says, somewhat stupidly. _Wait. Did I just ask him out? Did I just **pull** a client? _

“Good,” Chirrut echoes. He’s still grinning. He gives one more nod and a squeeze of his hand, and departs.

Bodhi, left standing in the empty doorway, gives him a _look_ —part disconcertion, part glee—and Baze scowls hard and flaps his hands. “Go on then, prep the third station. I’ll be right out. And _don’t tell Jyn_.”

Bodhi obeys, outright smirking now, and Baze fishes for his phone and his appointment book. Chirrut’s name is pencilled in in Bodhi's tight scrawl, and below that his number. Still riding the high of disbelief at his own bravado, he puts in the number listed and types, _Hello, Chirrut. It’s Baze._ He isn’t sure what else to say—he’d asked to text tomorrow, so there’s no point in predicting his availability, but he wants Chirrut to have his number just in case.

A moment later, his fears are allayed with an incoming text. _Hello Baze. Thank you for your excellent work and your conversation. I look forward to its continuation._

Baze snorts, smiling in spite of himself. “He’s a professor, all right,” he mutters to himself, then puts his phone away to see to his client. No need to give Bodhi (and by extension, Jyn) any more ammunition with which to tease him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A coffee date and a zama-shiwo session. Also, Chirrut can't shut up about the Force.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As previously mentioned, this chapter contains minimal descriptions of "zama-shiwo" which, for the purposes of this fic, is intentional scarification for body modification purposes, like a slightly more hardcore tattoo. Nothing graphic, but please be aware! :)

Chirrut chooses the cafe. It seems only fair, as he works halfway across town from Baze’s shop and Baze has nothing better to do this morning apart from a few errands. He deliberately makes his last stop nearer the university than he normally would, and finds himself at the Yavin IV bistro just in time to meet Chirrut coming in the opposite direction.

He looks very good, Baze thinks, though it hardly makes sense—he looks just the same as he had the day Baze met him, even if he’s dressed a little differently. He’s traded his plain, sombre tunic for a deep salmon suit coat in a modern cut over a button-down and black jeans, with a brilliant red scarf around his neck. The color combination shouldn’t work, but somehow it does, a splash of color and vibrancy against the dull monochrome backdrop of Jedha City in the fall. His cane sweeps lightly out in front of him as he walks, but it almost seems more like a warning than an aid. People move smartly out of the way of his brisk approach, parting like lemmings before a stalking panther.

When he slows, presumably to enter the cafe that Baze is standing in front of like an enormous idiot, Baze clears his throat and says, “Hello, Chirrut.”

“Baze!” Chirrut exclaims, face turning immediately to focus in his direction. It’s a little bit disconcerting, but Baze pushes that instinctive feeling away. Chirrut’s mannerisms are more impressive than anything else, and Baze refuses to be ignorant. He thinks of the books he’d picked up at the university library and smiles when he shakes Chirrut’s proffered hand.

“No Echo today?”

“No, she’s with her sitter. I don’t usually bring her to school anymore, I know my way around so well after all these years. Apologies for being a little late, by the way, I was meeting with a student and lost track of time.”

“No problem,” Baze shrugs. “I was trying to be punctual, but I forgot what traffic was like in this part of the district.”

“So it all worked out.” Chirrut smiles and tilts his head toward the door. “Shall we?”

Baze hasn’t been to Yavin IV personally, but he’s heard Bodhi rave about it from when he used to take classes at Jedha U, and he has to admit the word-of-mouth reviews aren’t far off the mark. It’s big, given the large clientele base, but still somehow manages to be cozy and inviting. And Chirrut, unsurprisingly, knows his way around perfectly. He precedes Baze to the counter after a short queue, orders, and gestures for Baze to follow.

“I know all the best spots,” he confides, and leads the way up a tucked-away flight of stairs to a broad second-story veranda overlooking the rest of the shop.

There’s an unoccupied table at one end, made of lacy wrought-iron with two mismatched benches low to the ground and heaped with cushions. On the wall, colorful tapestries bright up the raw stucco, and there’s a tin oil lamp hanging from the ceiling casting speckles of light against his cheek. To the young university students all around them, the decor is likely “retro” and “bohemian,” but to Baze it feels like an extension of his grandmother’s living room—homey, warm, and just a little bit noisy, thick with the smell of incense and cinnamon and ground coffee.

“I can see why you like this place,” Baze says without thinking.

“Oh, can you?”

“I just _meant_ ,” Baze continues, ignoring his chortle, “the atmosphere… it reminds me of how Jedha used to be. What little I remember of it.”

“It’s been through a lot, our little city,” Chirrut sighs in agreement. “It’s nice to find parts of it that still remember. Here, for instance. A fellow professor told me about it some time ago and I’ve been a loyal customer ever since. Breha Organa—perhaps you know of her husband?”

“Organa… he sits on the City Council, doesn’t he?”

“That’s right. Breha is part of the history department as well, though her purview rests more on the political side of things.”

“Then I’m sure your paths intersect often,” Baze says dryly, earning a laugh.

“They do, indeed.” He seems about to say more, but pauses for some reason Baze can’t identify until a young barista appears suddenly with their drinks: a thick cacao-chile espresso for Baze in a comically small cup, and for Chirrut a large mug of tea, made the traditional way with milk and spices and blended up into a froth. “Thank you, Leia,” Chirrut says, and buries his nose in his cup with a long sigh of contentment.

“What were you going to say, before?” Baze asks, stirring a bit of cream into his cup. “You seemed on the verge of something.”

“Very perceptive,” Chirrut says, and it sounds like praise. Baze grunts.

“Comes with the territory. Sometimes people want a tattoo for the wrong reasons, or aren’t sure what they _really_ want, and need some guidance.”

Chirrut looks thoughtful at this, head tilted slightly to one side as he faces Baze across the table. Baze still isn’t used to it, being “seen” by someone who can’t see, but he can’t say it’s an unpleasant sensation. “You’re a good man,” Chirrut says suddenly. He seems to have forgotten whatever it was he had meant to say before, and Baze doesn’t press him, too baffled by the calm surety of this statement.

“I don’t know about that. I’m a good tattoo artist—I’ll admit that any day. But a good man?”

“You are,” Chirrut insists with vigor. He reaches across the table and for some reason Baze meets him halfway to take his hand.

“And how do you know that?”

A private smile touches the edges of his pretty mouth. “The Force told me.”

Baze snorts on pure instinct and immediately wishes he could take it back. Even if he was joking, Chirrut doesn’t deserve to be laughed at for his beliefs. He squeezes his hand in lieu of an apology. “Is that so? And what else did the Force tell you about me?”

Chirrut’s nose wrinkles. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“I don’t _not_ believe you,” Baze counters. “It’s just that I’ve never heard anyone call on the Force with such… conviction.”

“I am convicted,” Chirrut replies firmly; the only thing lacking is a decisive thump on his chest like an elderly grandfather winning an argument. Then, with uncharacteristic hesitancy, he asks, “Is that all right with you?”

“Why do you need my approval?”

Another fleeting smile. “I make it a point to seek the favorable opinions of good men.”

Baze is horrified to feel himself blushing. At least Chirrut won’t be able to tell. Thankful for even that small bit of privacy, he gently releases Chirrut’s hand and says, “Tell me more? About the Force.”

Chirrut inhales deeply and sits back in his chair, looking for all the world as if someone has placed a slice of decadent chocolate cake in front of him. “The Force,” he intones, “is something that moves in and through every living thing. The monks of the Whills taught that such power could be harnessed through meditation and certain rituals, although some are— _were_ —more attuned than others.”

“Are?” Baze interrupts in spite of himself. “You said _are_ before.”

“A slip of the tongue. No monks exist today, of course, and much of their teaching is lost to us.” He pauses, face working through a series of expressions that Baze can’t parse.

“What is it?”

“I—nothing. It’s just that people are not often this receptive to being… preached at. Particularly in lectures. I’ve learned to curb my tongue, so this is a bit of a novelty for me.”

“Well, I’m interested,” Baze says firmly. Frankly he thinks it’s a crime that anyone would deny Chirrut the opportunity to ramble on about his interests, particularly when it lights up his whole face in such a charming way. “Preach away, Professor.”

Chirrut looks taken aback for a moment, but soon recovers his eagerness. “Right. Well, back before the Imperial War razed much of Jedha City to the ground a few hundred years ago, there was a holy temple devoted to the study and worship of the Force.”

“The Temple of the Whills,” Baze supplies.

“That’s correct. We know from the few ancient texts recovered and preserved during those times that the monks who served the Whills were not only peaceful men and women who did good deeds and taught their faith to anyone who came looking, but also warriors, trained to defend the Temple in times of unrest.”

“It didn’t save them when the Empire came calling, did it?” Baze points out.

“The Whills was not the only fortification to fall,” Chirrut reminds him gently. “But no, it didn’t save them. The better part of the city was destroyed in an enormous blast, and the temple buried beneath. In the next century or so, many things were preserved, and many more were lost to looters and rubble. Then, of course, the Order was founded.” He obviously can’t see Baze’s grimace, but he seems to sense it anyway, nodding in commiseration. “We were both only children then, I think, yes?”

“I was six when they occupied the city,” Baze agrees, hoping Chirrut will confess his own age in reply. He has the look of someone who’s seen a lot of life, but the marks of maturity on his face are more from laughter than the passage of time.

“Seven,” Chirrut replied with a nod. Forty-two, then. Baze rubs beneath one hangdog eye and envies him in silence. “I lost my father to those early conflicts, and learned quickly to keep my head down.” He gestures at large to the cafe around them, full to the brim with young people studying and gossiping and laughing. “They have no memory of that time, so they do not understand why we old folks grumble about the Council. Order puppets.” He makes a face as if he’s about to spit, but refrains. Baze shifts in his seat.

“They’re fairly harmless,” he says carefully. “I know they have their fingers in the Council, but so does almost everyone, and Mon Mothma knows what she’s doing.”

“Mothma is a gift of the Force, I agree, but she’s just one woman against a tide. The Order knows when to press and when to let things slide. If the public is kept happy, you see, they won’t ask questions.” He bows his head. “I’ve been trying for years, ever since I achieved tenure, to get government approval to dig up the remains of the Temple. We could learn so much from its bones.” Sorrow creases his face briefly, followed by stony resignation. “Unfortunately, they say their money would be better spent implementing other types of _urban renewal projects_.”

“Gentrification, you mean.”

“That, and total redevelopment. A whole swathe of the Old Jedha market was taken down last year to make way for a bunch of clunky silicon tourist shops.” He scowls and drinks his tea with spiteful vigor. Then he sighs, relaxes, and smiles across the table in Baze’s general direction. “But you must forgive me—you were asking about the Force.”

Baze wants to know more about the Temple and what steps Chirrut has taken to have it unearthed, but he can sense the edges of an old and bitter wound, so he leans back in his chair and says, “Let me guess. You’re the professor that all the kids take advantage of by asking obscure questions that take you off on tangents until class is over.”

Chirrut throws his head back and laughs, one of his toothy laughs that exposes his gums and coaxes an answering smile on Baze’s face. “I will neither confirm nor deny,” he says, still chuckling. “But truly, ask whatever you wish, and I will do my best to answer succinctly.”

Baze considers his next question carefully. “So you believe the Force exists. Do you… feel it, ever?”

“Feel the Force?” He smiles. “That you even ask means you believe it to be a possibility. My answer, I fear, is not as straightforward. Perhaps I do feel it, and I’m not entirely crazy like some of my students believe. Or perhaps I only _think_ I feel it—a placebo effect, if you will. Or perhaps—and this may be the most likely—my blindness has afforded me a certain extrasensory perception that makes me appear to be ‘gifted’ in that way.”

“And which answer would _you_ choose?”

Chirrut spreads his hands. “All of them. None of them. At least one of them is always true, so does it matter?”

Baze huffs. “That’s not an answer.”

Chirrut tilts his head and seems to consider from from across the table. “Sometimes,” he says, quieter than before, “when I meditate, it feels like I can sense everything around me. The plants I keep on the windowsills and the balcony, the dog lazing in the sun, my neighbor’s little girl playing in the next apartment. Do I feel these things through the Force? Or do I _think_ I feel them because I know that they exist?”

“I suppose it doesn’t matter,” Baze says at last, shaking loose from the spell that Chirrut’s voice has lulled him under. “Perhaps the Force is real to you if you want it to be, and that is enough.”

Chirrut smiles with his eyes this time, and he curls his hands around his mug. “I think perhaps you are right.”

///

Chirrut’s first session is on a Saturday otherwise free of clients. Bodhi has two, and Jyn is doing her coursework behind the front desk when he arrives; Baze hears the ring of the bell and comes to the front before Jyn can scare the poor man off with her sullenness.

But, to his surprise, Chirrut is calmly carrying on a conversation with her, while she seems to be doing her best to disappear into the floor. Chirrut lifts his head at Baze’s approach and smiles, one hand dropping to Echo’s head where the dog sits beside him. “Baze, hello. I was just having a nice chat with Jyn here. Did you know she used to be my student?”

Baze raises an eyebrow. _That_ explains a few things—not all, but a few. “Is that so?” he says, more to Jyn that to Chirrut, but it’s Chirrut who answers.

“I’m sure you already know this, but she’s a very bright, talented young woman, and not just at her schoolwork. She left a rather fantastic anti-government mural on the wall outside my martial arts studio a few months ago. Very impressive.”

“Professor Îmwe…” Jyn starts, but Chirrut happily steamrolls right over her.

“Of course it was a bit of a problem when the police showed up wanting to know my political leanings, but I managed to talk them out of an arrest.”

Jyn is redder than a beet, but she still stammers out, “Professor, I’m sorry. It was supposed to be a harmless prank, I never meant for you to get hurt.”

“Nonsense, child, I wasn’t hurt, only a little inconvenienced.” He winks, an odd expression on a blind man. “I just wanted to make you squirm.”

Baze only just manages to keep himself from laughing out loud. Instead he says, somewhat sternly, “Jyn, is _this_ why you were sentenced to eight weeks of community service?”

“No,” Jyn mutters, and then confusion flashes in her grey-blue eyes. “You mean you never told on me?”

Chirrut shrugs. “I didn’t exactly have proof, did I?”

“Don’t play stupid—er, sir,” Jyn says, correcting herself at a warning look from Baze. “We had that fight about the Council in your office and then I dropped your class…”

“And a few days later, a couple of jugheads showed up at my door demanding to know about the _unpatriotic propaganda_ that I’d had no idea was there,” Chirrut finishes for her, a touchy sadly. “Yes, I knew—I suspected it was you. But why confess it? You are a very intelligent and capable young woman, Miss Erso; it would be selfish to condemn you to a criminal record when I could easily talk them out of an arrest without giving you up. Although now I find myself curious about this… community service.”

Baze is curious too—all he knew about it was that Jyn had stormed home a few weeks ago with the judge’s letter crumpled in her hand, refusing to speak to him about it—but Jyn’s expression of misery prevents him from digging further. “It’s a long story,” he says simply. “And we should probably get started if you want to be out of here in time for your… other obligations.” He just barely stops himself from saying “prayers.” Chirrut had told him of his own personal sunrise and sunset devotions, but he isn’t sure whether he wants that information aired to all and sundry. Chirrut nods.

“You’re right, of course. Jyn, my dear, please don’t worry about it anymore. You were forgiven as soon as I realized you’d done it.”

Jyn bows her head silently, and Baze leads the way back to his studio. He doesn’t mean to say anything further on the subject, but the paternal instinct in him lifts his head and he says, taking Chirrut’s coat, “Thank you for being patient with her.”

“She is young,” Chirrut says simply, “with much passion and energy inside of her. She will find her way, with the right guidance.” He hesitates, then adds, “I don’t know how she found her way to you, but I’m glad she did. You are good for her, I think.”

“Time will tell,” Baze says evasively. His role as Jyn’s guardian is a complicated one, and he’s itching to find out how Chirrut fits into the picture, but now isn’t the time. “There’s a chair two paces to your left—if you could take off your shirt and sit with your stomach to the back of it, please.”

Chirrut does as instructed, stripping efficiently and folding his clothes for Baze to set aside. He gives Echo a brief pat and tells her to lie down well out of the way; she whuffs at him and goes to lay down with her back to the drawing table, never taking her eyes off them.

Baze narrates everything as he finishes prepping his station, wrapping a towel around Chirrut’s waist and disinfecting his back before transferring a small portion of the design to his skin: the bare bones of the starbird, to be filled in as the scarring heals. “I’m going to let you handle my tools,” he says when this is done. “They’re sharp, so please be careful.”

One by one he passes them over and explains their specific functions. Chirrut already knows most of the names, but he is clearly eager to absorb any scrap of new information, and so he lets Baze explain uninterrupted. He handles each one with care, feeling the carved wooden handles and the slim metal tips, grinning like a boy who’s wandered into a candy shop.

“They’re so old,” he marvels, rubbing his thumb against one particularly soft design, blurred with age and use. “Where did you get them?”

“My teacher, Master Yip. He was the one who took me in as an apprentice, taught me everything I know of _zama-shiwo_.” Baze watches him roll his thumb along the base and feels a strange flush of heat in his veins. “He learned it from his master, and so on—no telling how far back it goes. I do know that he made these tools himself as an apprentice. Unfortunately I never had the proper final step of training before he passed, no I never made my own tools. Technically I’m not even a master _zama-shiwo_ artist—I just inherited the title by default. The only one in the city, now.”

“Hmm.” Chirrut smiles and hands back the knife. “I still trust you.”

“Your trust will not be misplaced,” Baze replies, and it sounds like a pledge of fealty to his ears.

He offers numbing shots beforehand, which Chirrut declines, then some natural jacca root painkillers, which he accepts. Then they get to work.

If Baze has learned anything from his years as a tattoo artist, it’s that every client is different, particularly when it comes to _zama-shiwo_. Chirrut, however, is different than most. He doesn’t make a single sound except to respond whenever Baze checks in, and always in the affirmative. His only movement is to occasionally clench and unclench his fists, but his face remains smooth and calm. That calm transfers itself to Baze, although his hands are as steady as ever, and the next hour flies by, punctuated by the clink of his tools being traded out and the blot and swipe of disinfectant.

Baze is quiet as he cleans up, following Chirrut’s example. This, at least, he has seen before, from _zama-shiwo_ and traditional tattooing alike—a kind of dazed high produced by the pain. For some it results in jitters and giggling, but for others—for Chirrut—it manifests in stillness.

The candle he lit at the beginning has burned to halfway, infusing the air with the scent of sandalwood and smoked vanilla, when Chirrut finally stirs. All his tools have been disinfected and put away, the towel disposed of in the biohazardous waste container, and Baze has just been sitting and thinking, not wanting to leave him alone. When he shifts and grimaces in the chair, Baze goes to him, ready with more jacca tablets, but Chirrut shakes his head.

“I’ll be all right. Thank you.” His voice is a little hoarse, though, and he takes a cup of water when Baze presses him.

“You sure? Take it easy, the first session is often the worst.” He eyes the parts of the design he can see, drawn in scarlet lines beneath the film of protective plastic, and touches his unmarked shoulder lightly. “Did you arrange a lift home like we discussed?”

Chirrut makes a face that tells Baze he hadn’t. “I… may have overestimated myself a little. I was intending to walk home—”

“ _Walk_? Îmwe, are you mad?”

“So I’ve been told,” Chirrut says cheerfully. “I believe Jyn and her friends referred to me as _the mad monk_ once upon a time.” At Baze’s growl he tsks and turns with care so that he’s sitting facing the room. “Don’t get all protective on me now, _Malbus_. I’ve been called far worse in my time, believe me.”

“Oh, I believe you,” Baze says, so quickly that Chirrut laughs. “But you still need a ride home. Let me.”

“The Force provides,” Chirrut intones, though his wicked smirk and the gleam of sweat on his bare chest makes the spiritualism fall short. “Just let me get dressed.”

“I’ll help, if you want,” Baze hears himself say.

“I would like that,” Chirrut replies warmly. Baze stubbornly refuses to blush—it’s a matter of principle.

Thankfully Chirrut listened to at least part of his instructions—he wore a soft button-down shirt and a zippered hoodie today, easy to put on with limited range of movement. Baze helps him put them on over the slippery cling-wrap, and does the buttons when Chirrut’s hands shake to much to do it himself. A small task, but intimate—Baze feels oddly protective of him in this tiny moment of vulnerability, even though he knows without a shred of doubt that Chirrut could probably hand him his ass on a regular day.

When he’s finished, he grabs his own coat and keys while Chirrut waits with Echo by the front door. The chair should still be wiped down, and the counters, but Baze shoots Bodhi a text to do it when he’s free and takes Chirrut’s arm (at his request) to lead him out to his car.

“Did you know,” Chirrut says conversationally, detaching Echo’s harness for the short trip, “traditionally, the monks had _zama-shiwo_ done on their faces? I can’t imagine how painful it would be, even if they did chew a hundred jacca roots afterward. Here, girl.” He snaps his fingers and she hops into the back seat, laying down on the floor without batting an eye at the unfamiliar vehicle.

“Your tongue would fall out after fifty,” Baze replies. He opens the passenger door for Chirrut, because sometimes he’s a gentleman, and climbs in the other side to start the ignition. “And before you ask, no, I don’t do faces. Company policy.”

Chirrut heaves a sigh. “Too bad. A little scarring would probably improve things, wouldn’t you say?”

“Scars would make a bad job worse, Îmwe, so don’t ask.”

Chirrut only laughs, and Baze wonders when they crossed the line from _friendly_ to _flirting_. He’s too old for this nonsense, he tells himself, but as Chirrut hits his stride and starts chattering away, it’s hard to make himself believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everyone's a little younger in this fic, btw. baze and chirrut are early forties, everyone else is late teens/early twenties. I'll be getting more into the fucked up lore of this AU in future chapters, but if anyone is confused feel free to drop me a line.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chirrut has a proposition. Jyn has a backstory. Baze is A Dad.

Jyn is on the phone when Baze gets home. She’s sitting at the kitchen table, the guts of some unfortunate machine spread out around her, but her shoulders are hunched up to her ears which means she’s not hitting up Kay for technical advice. Baze drops off his things and goes upstairs to shower away the day, leaving her to her privacy. 

When he returns, her phone is quiet on the table and she’s pulling vegetables out of the crisper with an unnecessary amount of vigor. Baze puts a pot of coffee on to brew and leans against the counter, waiting.

“Papa called,” Jyn says after a while, slicing a mound of onions and peppers with vindictive strokes of the knife. “He says hello.”

Baze grunts. “And how is Galen doing?”

Jyn shrugs. “Okay, I guess. He can’t really talk much about it. We mostly talked about my studies.”

“Jyn…”

“What? I didn’t tell him, okay? He’d be so disappointed that I flunked out, and what’ll that do except distract him from his work?”

Baze sighs and pours two cups instead of answering. The air is thick with the smell of raw onion and strong coffee, and it’s a strange comfort as he passes her one of the mugs and wraps an arm around her shoulders. “You do what you feel is best, Jyn-feather. Let’s just try to avoid alerting the Order to your record, hmm?”

Jyn sighs and sags against him. “You mean Professor Îmwe.”

“I meant in general. But if you want to talk about your beef with him, I’ll listen.”

“What, so you can gossip to him about me on one of your weird knife-fetish dates?”

Surprise more than anything makes him bark with laughter. “You’ll have to try harder than that to put me off, Miss Erso.” He gives her shoulder a friendly squeeze and goes to start the veggies frying. “And for the record, I said nothing of you to the Professor. It’s none of his business.”

“Even if you _do_ want to take him out for knives and ink and stare into his eyes?”

Baze just clucks his tongue, and she buries her snicker into her coffee. It’s their own little ritual—a cup to keep out the cold while they wait for dinner to be ready. He can no longer remember when it started. After her initial shyness, twelve-year-old Jyn had latched onto him like a limpet, mimicking everything he did in a desperate bid to belong. Baze was happy to accommodate her, and they had got along ever since. Still, her tumultuous upbringing had left its mark. He hopes time and care will diminish the anger she carries close to her heart, but the last few years have not been easy. 

“It was nice of him,” Jyn says at last, fetching the tofu out of the fridge when he asks. “Professor Îmwe, not telling.”

“Very nice,” Baze agrees. “Can I ask what sparked the disagreement?”

“He was talking about the Empire’s history of brainwashing their troops, and how the Order is doing the same thing to the police force with the Council’s sanction. I got upset and confronted him— _after_ class,” she adds quickly when Baze frowns. “I told him that not everyone is brainwashed, that some people who work for the Order are—are tricked into it, or made to work for them because they’re the best at what they do. And he said…” She trails off, biting her lower lip. “He said, every person has a choice to whom they give their allegiance.” She speaks slowly, as if quoting word for word from memory. “Some have no voice, but anyone with their right mind and a sense of justice will choose rightly.”

It wasn’t a bad response, Baze thought, but he kept that to himself. Jyn took perceived slights against her birth father very personally. Galen had made the decision to serve the Order to keep his daughter safe, and that in itself was a “just and right choice” to Baze’s mind, but he doubts Jyn took the time to get into the particulars. 

“You think I was wrong,” Jyn says flatly when he doesn’t say anything.

“I think you were right to open the discussion. I _do_ think you were wrong to take revenge, particularly in the way you did. Professor Îmwe could have gotten into serious trouble.”

Jyn scowls, but she doesn’t disagree. After a little while, she continues in a small voice, “What should I do?”

“Do?”

“To… apologize. Properly, I mean.” She twists her hands around her mug and Baze feels a swell of paternal pride in his chest. 

“I can ask,” he says mildly. “With your permission.”

Jyn nods slowly. “Are you going to tell him about… about Papa?”

“Not unless you want me to.”

She thinks about it for a while—in fact, long enough that Baze is tipping hefty portions of stir fry onto two plates before she responds. “Don’t, please.” Then, in a smaller voice, “It probably isn’t safe for him to know, is it.”

Baze recalls the strength of Chirrut’s grip and the mention of a martial arts school, and shrugs. “I think Professor Îmwe can take care of himself. But it’s up to you.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t want him thinking—thinking I’m just _brainwashed_.”

Baze isn’t sure anyone could mistake headstrong, spitfire Jyn Erso for “brainwashed,” but he makes that promise nevertheless, without any twinge of conscience. Keeping Jyn’s trust is more important than telling Chirrut the truth, even if he deserves to hear it. 

///

Baze has known Jyn since she was very small. Her mother was fond of ink, and she had many beautiful pieces done over the years by Baze’s own hand. Sometimes she would bring little Jyn, who was not at all put off by the process, and who demanded each time that she be allowed to have a flower on her cheek, or a blaster, or a starbird. She called him Uncle Baze, then, and he called her Jyn-feather, and it was good.

Then one day the police came to his studio, demanding to know his connection to Galen Erso. They were thorough—very thorough—but the First Order was not quite the Empire of old, and Baze was cooperative. He attended the funeral, some days later. Inside the half-casket, Lyra’s face was so still and cold that a part of him rebelled that it was her. But he could see, behind the porcelain curve of her neck, a little bit of color: the ginbird he’d put there less than a year ago, for her lively, spitfire daughter. 

“Baze Malbus?”

Baze stood a little straighter and turned, nodding. “Saw.”

“I must admit some surprise in seeing you here.” His dark eyes danced over the assembled mourners, sharp as hidden blades. “I wouldn’t think you’d be eager to expose yourself to so many Order eyes.”

Baze wanted to laugh in his face. Only Saw Gerrera would be hunting prey at a fucking _funeral_. “They already know who I am,” he said instead. _They know who you are, too,_ he thought, but had too much respect for Lyra’s memory to send one of her oldest friends on a rampage. Instead he turned away from the casket, casting his eyes like a net across the crowded room. Wakes weren’t a very Jedhan tradition, but there were plenty of people there regardless. Past the crowd, he could make out the tall, black-clad figure of Galen Erso gravely thanking a dwindling line of well-wishers. Jyn was not with him—he wasn’t sure whether he approved or not, keeping her from her own mother’s funeral.

“She should be here,” Saw grunted beside him, obviously following his train of thought. “It’s not right, hiding the truth from her. She’s old enough to know what death is.”

Abruptly Baze decided he was glad for Jyn’s absence. “She’s six,” he said, a little too brusquely to be considered polite. “I’m sure Galen did what he thought was best.”

“She’s to come with me, you know,” Saw said it a low voice. “Galen wants her away from _their_ influence, so I’ll be taking custody while he goes to work in their secret base.”

For a reason he couldn’t explain, anger cut through him like lightning. He hid it stubbornly, gritting his teeth behind relaxed lips, and gave a jerky nod. “I wish you luck. She’s a handful.”

It was no surprise to him that Lyra had put Saw Gerrera down as Jyn’s guardian in the event of a tragedy, but he didn’t think that this was what she would have wanted. Saw wasn’t the kind of man you wanted to be affiliated with in Jedha right now, and he was definitely not the sort of man who should be raising a young girl. But there was nothing Baze could do. With a sinking heart, he wondered if he would ever see his little Jyn-feather again—and if he did, if he would even recognize her. 

/

The first time she ran away, she was eight. She made it as far as the Central Train Station before she was stopped on account of her age and returned to Saw’s custody. The second time, she was ten, and Saw’s men got to her before she even made it out of the city. Whatever he told her to keep her quiet didn’t work, because at eleven and a half she stole a motorcycle and was on her way to the city of Coruscant when she was stopped by a police cruiser and arrested. When they asked her who her guardian was, she told them, “Baze Malbus of Jedha.”

When they showed up at Baze’s door, her hadn’t seen Jyn in almost six years, but there was no mistaking her, not with those huge grey eyes and the stubborn lower lip she’d inherited from Lyra. Baze paid them off and took her in, and she never left. 

Well, that wasn’t strictly true—she had to do a stint with Child Protective Services before Baze was allowed to take custody. The day he received a letter in the mail from the First Order base with Galen’s name attached, he ordered a new bed and chest of drawers to be delivered to his tiny South Jedha apartment and went to pick her up. Neither of them ever heard from Saw Gerrera again. 

Things were stable for a while, but Jyn had problems all through school—issues with authority, they said, and Baze felt like he spent more time inside the headmaster’s office than outside of it. College, when it came, was only a temporary relief. Jyn got into heated “debates” with her professors and fellow students on a near-daily basis, and one fight in particular started the chain reaction that led to her dropping out. Baze hopes against hope that the engineering trade school where she takes night classes three days a week will be the thing that sticks. 

He’s dropping off the next semester’s tuition when he gets a text from Jyn. _[Prof Îmwe is at the shop, he wants to talk to you.]_ There’s a string of utterly ridiculous emojis after it, mostly consisting of knives and hearts, which Baze ignores. He’s just a few blocks away, on an extended lunch break to run some errands, but he picks up the pace anyway. 

When he arrives, his apprehension appears to have been unfounded—Jyn is sitting _on_ the counter and swinging her black chucks against the front, leaving scuff marks that Baze has given up scolding her for. Chirrut, looking quite smart in white slacks with a brick-red diamond pattern stamped on and a dark grey suit jacket, is leaning against the opposite end of the counter and spinning his cane between his hands as he laughs at something that Baze has only just missed. They both turn his way when he walks in, and Baze feels an odd rush of relief that Chirrut can’t see him, dressed as he is in a battered leather bomber and holey jeans. 

“Chirrut, hello. Your checkup isn’t for another week, are you having any complications?”

“Oh, no! Nothing like that. Nothing related to our contract at all, in fact.” He smiles beatifically and tilts his head toward Baze’s private studio. “Do you mind?”

“Of course, after you.” He raises a quizzical eyebrow at Jyn, but she just shrugs and winks before hopping off the counter. Baze sighs and heads to the back. 

Chirrut is sitting in Baze’s consultation chair when he enters, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee and the rest of him languishing like a little prince against the well-patched upholstery. He lifts his head and flashes a smile, and Baze can’t help smiling back. 

“What can I do for you, Professor?”

“I have a proposition,” Chirrut answers, sounding unaccountably pleased with himself. “I haven’t broached the subject yet with Jyn—I thought it best to come from you, as she knows you better and holds no grudges against you.”

“Don’t be so sure of that,” Baze warns, only half-joking. “But nevermind—tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I’ve mentioned before that I teach martial arts. In reality I only teach a little these days, as most of my time is taken up with my duties at the University, but I oversee the place and all the instructors are very good. I think it might be beneficial for Jyn to take classes there—with me or with one of my other trainers. An outlet, if you will. Something constructive to put her energy toward.”

Baze considers this. It’s a bit of a brilliant idea—her mind is exercised well enough at school, but he knows her idle hands sometimes long for something a little more challenging. And idle hands, as they say, do the devil’s work. “Is she not too old to start?”

“Not at all. I take students of all ages and abilities—even the elderly such as ourselves.” His nose crinkles teasingly, and Baze snorts. 

“Funny. Do you have a business card? I’ll bring it up with her tonight, see what she thinks.”

“Indeed I do.” He produces a card from his wallet with a flourish. When Baze accepts it, he’s startled to feel Braille along the bottom edge, and then he feels stupid for being surprised. Above the Braille, in stark, bold letters, _ÎMWE SHIWO_ stands out in the middle, with the full address and contact information below in fine print. Clever. 

“Thank you,” Baze says sincerely. “It… means a lot to me, that you want to help her. She’s a good kid, she’s just… had a rough go of it.”

“I understand. There’s no need to explain.” He stands and straightens out his jacket. “She’s a very bright young woman. You must tell her that it would be my pleasure to debate politics whenever she wishes.”

“Or you could tell her yourself.”

Chirrut smiles. “Perhaps I will one day.” He reaches out unerringly and taps Baze on the shoulder. “Thank you for making time for me. I’ll see you next week. May the Force of others be with you.”

“And—with you,” Baze stammers back, the words dusty with disuse. Chirrut smiles nevertheless, and it leaves Baze with a warm, floaty feeling in his chest that lasts the rest of the day. 

He’s the last to leave the shop around eight, and he walks home with his groceries swinging from both hands. The walk is pleasantly cool—a slight breeze lifts the flyaway hair from the ponytail at his nape, and it’s still warm enough that he leaves his jacket unzipped, enjoying the last few days of good weather before autumn descends in earnest. 

Jyn is still at her evening class when he gets home, so he starts the coffee without her. He leaves Chirrut’s business card on the counter and starts dinner. 

The rice is cold by the time Jyn walks in, but she brings green tea from the cafe downstairs as an apology. They eat with chopsticks on the back veranda with the sun setting behind Jedha’s skyline, and the great butter-gold heft of NiJedha lingering watchfully overhead. 

When the dishes are clear and the cat is laying at their feet to soak up the lingering warmth of the cement, Jyn flicks Chirrut’s business card out of her sleeve and holds it up, squinting at the minimalist typography. Baze doesn’t even pretend to be surprised that she snatched it up without him seeing. 

“Thinking of taking classes?” she asks, smirking. 

“No,” he replies, though privately he must admit the thought has crossed his mind. “It’s for you, if you want.”

The smile drops off her face in an instant. “For me?”

“Master Îmwe wants to teach you. He thinks you would take well to it.”

Jyn doesn’t look like she entirely believes him. But even if those hadn’t been Chirrut’s exact words, Baze thinks they’re true to the original intent. “Will you do it with me?” she asks finally, rubbing her thumb over the Braille. 

Baze frowns. “If this is just an attempt at matchmaking…”

“No! Well, not totally.” She at least as the grace to look abashed, even if the expression is at war with the mischievous smile tugging at her mouth. “I just think it would be a nice thing to do together. Father-daughter. Or guardian-daughter, if you prefer.”

Dammit, the girl really knows how to play him. Baze is all too willing to be played. “I can’t promise anything,” he says gruffly, “but there are demo lessons we can attend to learn more, if you want. I think there’s one this weekend that doesn’t conflict with either of our schedules.”

Jyn claps her hands, and Baze wonders what percentage of her excitement comes from getting him and Chirrut in the same room together. For disliking the man so much, she clearly thinks he’s at least good enough for her guardian. (Father? No. Guardian.)

“Maybe,” he says slowly, “this can be your apology. You had said you were open to suggestions.”

“Two birds with one stone,” Jyn says nonsensically. 

Baze decides it’s better not to ask. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note on the setting: NiJedha is the planet they're all on, NaJedha is essentially a gas giant chilling overhead like an oversized moon. NiJedha is split up into city-states (like Jedha, Coruscant, Hoth, etc.), but all our action centers on Jedha City, which used to the the planet's capital but is now kind of on the low end of the totem pole. There's no interstellar world like in canon, just the one planet. Makes everything easier to keep track of, lol. 
> 
> And thank you so much for all your kind comments!! It's really fueling the fire and I appreciate it :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chirrut makes a move. Baze wears sweatpants. Jyn develops a crush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when did these summaries become parodies of The Adventure Zone episode synopses??

Thursday is so busy that Baze doesn’t have much time to speak with Chirrut aside from verifying that his back is healing as it should. He tells him about the demo appointment he’d booked with Chirrut’s receptionist, and Chirrut seems so pleased that it makes up for the brevity of their time together. Baze decides not to think too hard on why he’s so hungry for Chirrut’s company. 

Saturday dawns grey and drizzly, so Baze takes Jyn to the cafe down the street from _Îmwe Shiwo_ before the demo. The receptionist had told them to wear loose, comfortable clothing, so Jyn is wearing acid wash grey tights and a stretchy, oversized hoodie with her usual Docs, and Baze—somewhat reluctantly—is wearing sweatpants and an old tee shirt under his coat. He’s a little self-conscious as they enter the martial arts studio—his years serving as a Jedha City police officer are well behind him, and he’s lost some of the trimness he’d boasted then. But the young woman behind the desk greets them both warmly without batting an eye, making him relax just a little as she goes to fetch an instructor. 

Not quite relaxed enough, however. “You don’t have to look so tense, Baze,” Jyn tells him airily, tying her long hair up into a twist at the back of her head with little apparent effort. Baze is wearing his usual ponytail, but it had taken three times as long to achieve this morning for some reason. “It’s not like he can see how goofy you look in sweats.”

“ _Jyn_ ,” Baze sighs, longsuffering.

The receptionist returns before he can tell her off properly, with a young man in tow. He isn’t particularly tall or particularly broad, but he carries himself with the surety and grace of someone several years older. He carries himself like Chirrut, Baze realizes. _This must be one of his junior instructors._

“Hello there, I’m Cassian,” he says, shaking both their hands firmly and with direct eye contact through the fashionable brown flop of his hair. “Lei and I are about ten minutes out from finishing this lesson. Why don’t you both come observe and then we can go over some basic moves to give you an idea of what we do.”

Jyn is suddenly and uncharacteristically silent, so Baze responds in the affirmative for both of them. Apparently unbothered by their taciturn replies, Cassian gestures for them to follow and leads them down a hall. At the end of it they slip into the back of a modest gym, bare of exercise equipment and laid with thick rubber mats. The mirrored walls reflect a collection of about twelve people—ranging in age from late teens to almost middle age—following the movements of a young woman that twigs in his brain as familiar. He watches her obliquely, trying to figure out who she is. She’s dressed in white leggings and a tank top that Jyn would probably approve of, with _STOP WARS_ stamped stylistically on the front, and her long dark hair is bound into a braid that swings around her body with every gesture. After a moment, Baze recognizes her: the barista from Yavin IV, the daughter of Councilman Organa. 

Cassian gestures for them to remain in the back to watch, and he rejoins his co-teacher at the front. Baze folds his arms and leans against the wall to watch. He’s not unfamiliar with martial arts—all police officers were required to know some unarmed combat—but the patterns unfolding before them now are softer than the ones he knows, more compact. Leia and Cassian move in perfect sync, and the rest follow, always a beat or two behind but never faltering. 

All at once the dance comes to an end. After a few gentle forms to cool down, the class is dismissed and Cassian and Leia beckon them forward to answer questions and demonstrate the basic forms in slow motion. Baze moves clumsily at first, but he’s starting to get the hang of it when the door opens suddenly and breaks his focus. He turns, and so do the others, but he doesn’t think that their breaths catch in their chests the way his does. 

Chirrut stands in the doorway, _sans_ both cane and dog for the first time since Baze met him. The cane has never been a crutch, but seeing him without it is startling. But more than that, he’s… beautiful. He’s dressed in silky red leggings that sit loosely at his hips but snug in the calf and ankle, and a soft-looking charcoal raglan, faded with age, the logo of the martial arts club just barely visible on the front. The sleeves are pushed up to the elbows, exposing muscular brown forearms, and the neck is loose around his jutting collarbones. Baze swallows and tries not to think about wanting to bite that exposed skin hard enough to leave a mark. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” Chirrut says brightly, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him. “Please, continue. Pretend I’m not even here.”

Jyn snorts under her breath, but mercifully keeps her tongue free of smart remarks. 

To Baze’s surprise, Chirrut quickly disappears into the background, becoming a blur of scarlet-grey and warm, delicious tan against the far wall. After their initial formal bows of acknowledgement, Leia and Cassian return to their sunbeam-bright focus, and it draws him in, draws them both in—he can see the determined wrinkle in Jyn’s brow as she watches Leia’s body and tries to match it perfectly. When the other girl smiles and comes closer to show her how to relax her limbs into something more natural, Baze holds his breath for the snap, the bite, but it doesn’t come. Jyn smiles back, clumsily, and tries again. 

“Awesome!” Leia says, and the tips of Jyn’s ears turn pink. Her only tell after a childhood with Saw Gerrera, and the reason she keeps her bangs thick around her face. _Interesting._

He’s so fascinated by this youthful unfolding of events that he misses an easy strike from Cassian and gets clocked in the jaw—very, very gentle, so gentle he can hardly feel it, but it makes Cassian startle back and begin apologizing almost frantically, bending low like a tree in a gale. Baze can’t help it—he laughs. 

“Don’t worry, young pup, that was like the touch of a butterfly’s wing on a sunny day. But my old mind is wandering—why don’t you focus on helping Jyn, since she’s clearly more eager to learn, and I will stand over here watching her make a fool of herself.”

Jyn scoffs and tosses her head with a flippant, “Thanks, Dad,” but she doesn’t protest him bowing out, and Baze grins like a fool as he retreats to the back of the gym.

“She’s very good,” Chirrut says as soon as he’s close enough. When Baze leans up against the wall they’re nearly shoulder to shoulder and Baze wills his foolish, fluttering heart to stillness. _You’re forty-one, not fourteen, by the Force!_ “You both are quick learners. Have you had martial arts training before?”

Baze isn’t sure whether he means the singular “you” or the plural, so he answers the latter. “I was a cop before I was a tattoo artist, so I have a little background in unarmed combat.” _And armed_ goes unsaid. “I don’t know about Jyn, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Saw taught her some measure of self-defense, even if it wasn’t as pretty as this.”

The “pretty” part sails right over his head as Chirrut stiffens. “Saw Gerrera? The partisan leader? Heavens, what was she doing under _his_ wing?” There’s something almost accusatory in his voice that makes Baze want to rush to explain, but he bites it back, silently cursing his loose tongue. 

“Dammit. Forget I said that. I promised her I wouldn’t…”

“Whatever her history, she has the right to her privacy,” Chirrut says quickly, calmer now. “I won’t press you.” But there’s still an undercurrent of tension in their corner of the gym that Baze can’t shake, untouched by the easy camaraderie developing in the middle of the mats. Chirrut clears his throat. “But you should know that Saw’s methods of indoctrination are… harsh. It’s not quite brainwashing, but he is fiercely devoted to his own ideals, to the exclusion of all else. Particularly love.” He sighs. “His cause is just, but his methods…”

“Particularly love?” Baze echoes curiously. It wasn’t a word he’s expected to hear. Peace, maybe, or equality. Familiar buzzwords these days. 

“Isn’t love the foundation of every good thing we strive for?” He smiles, face turned just enough toward Baze for it to be directed at him. “Hope carries a rebellion, but love sparks it.”

Baze shivers a little at the near-prophetic tone of his voice. “Do you think rebellion is coming?” he asks quietly.

“We will see,” Chirrut says. Bland. Light. Unconcerned. Like a man ready to face whatever comes, no matter how terrible. “We must proceed with peace and love in our hearts no matter what happens.” Another considering tilt of his head. “Will you face it, Baze? Or will you run?”

Baze watches Jyn, nearly scowling with determination but having the time of her life. Her form is far from perfect, too scrappy and wide-set, but that will improve with time. He thinks about the life he has built here, on the ground of his forebears, where once a horde of invaders came to wipe away their freedoms, their achievements. Maybe they destroyed the temple, all those years ago, but Baze believes there’s something of Old Jedha here still. Chirrut alone is proof of that. And for all his years of keeping his head down and his nose out of politics, doing his time in the force before retiring with merits, he thinks he’d gladly stand against the encroaching storm even if it meant preserving only dust and unremembered bones. 

Chirrut puts a hand on his arm suddenly, startling him from his thoughts. “No need to speak,” he says, smiling. “I can feel your answer all around you. I knew you were a good man, Baze Malbus. I am glad to have met you. Something tells me we will be bound together by more than a brief contract before all is said and done.” He squeezes his arm and moves away before Baze can fumble back a reply. “Now come. The demonstration is over.”

He leads the way back to where Jyn and Cassian are discussing a variation on a move meant to flip a much heavier opponent, and claps twice. “Very well done! Cassian, Leia my dear, thank you for your assistance. I believe you both have classes coming up, it would be prudent to go prepare for them.”

“Yes, Master Îmwe,” they say in unison, bowing formally. They exchange grins with each other and with Jyn, and depart in a quick whisper of bare feet on the polished wood floors. Chirrut clasps his hands behind his back and turns his thousand-watt smile on Jyn, who is lightly sweating and still breathing just a little bit hard. “Well, Miss Erso. What did you think?”

“It was great!” she says, hardly even trying to modulate her excitement. “Leia said you have a few mixed age classes? Would I have to start alone because I’m just beginning?”

Baze blinks—it’s the most he’s heard her say to Chirrut at once—but Chirrut takes it all in stride. “No, I don’t think that will be necessary. From what I could hear, you’re very coordinated and quick to pick things up. A month at the back of the class for a full view of everyone’s movements and I’m sure you’ll be in front helping Cassian give demonstrations.”

Jyn schools her features, but not before Baze catches a glimpse of disappointment. “Does Leia not teach with him normally?”

“Sometimes. The class you saw just now was slightly more advanced, for people who have been training here a year or more. Leia tends to do more private lessons, but she makes time to help with this class. There is another in…” He pauses long enough to run a finger over the watch face on his wrist. “In about fifteen minutes that I think would be ideal for you. And Baze.” He turns slightly, angling him into the conversation. “If that’s what you wish.”

“Do _you_ ever teach?” Jyn jumps in before Baze can formulate a reply. Chirrut makes a soft sound of amusement in his throat. 

“I give private lessons which are all currently full, and I teach one class on Thursday evenings for children. The rest of my time, I fear, belongs to the University.”

Jyn wrinkles her nose. “You teach _kids_?”

“I do. I enjoy the relative simplicity of it, the predictability. Children don’t care about philosophy or meditation practice, they just want to learn to beat each other up. Better they do it in a safe and controlled environment than the streets.” He smiles kindly, and Baze braces himself for an outburst; this is the kind of thing that Jyn would normally take offense to. But far from snapping back or throwing up her walls, Jyn only looks thoughtful.

“How should I sign her up?” Baze asks when the silence stretches. “And when can she start?”

“Shara at the front desk will help you,” Chirrut says. “Come, I’ll walk you.”

Once Chirrut has left them at reception, Baze folds his arms and turns to Jyn. “Well? What do you think?”

“Are you sure you don’t want to do it, too?” she tries.

“Not right now, Jyn-feather. I’m sorry. I don’t have the time.” He smiles at her crestfallen expression and reaches out to tug on a lock of hair that’s come loose from her knot. “Why is this so important to you? Me and…”

He doesn’t finish, perhaps a little afraid of being overheard by the receptionist, but Jyn fills in the blanks. “I dunno, I just think you could… use somebody. So you’re not always worrying about me.” She looks a little embarrassed at this, and rushes on, “He’s a bit of a know-it-all prick, but I think you could put up with that part. And he flirts with you _all_ the time.”

“Does he?” Baze asks, amused. He knows the answer, but Jyn is still young enough to not know the difference between reflex, or amusement, and intent. Chirrut is charming and effervescently personable with _everyone_. It’s just how he is: a beacon flaring bright and welcoming on the horizon. It’s no wonder that he draws people so effortlessly into his orbit, but it doesn’t mean he’s trying to pick Baze up, especially after the radio silence post-coffee. 

“You know he does, don’t be stupid,” Jyn says stubbornly. Then she sighs. “But I guess there’s no point if you can’t even take a class with him.”

Signing Jyn up for a class is the work of a few minutes, and then they go their separate ways, Baze to the studio and Jyn home to work on some project or other for her night class. Baze is a little surprised at how much less it cost than he had imagined. In a few spare moments between one client and the next, he opens the website for Îmwe SHIWO on his phone. And winces. The down payment and the fee for her first four classes was significantly lower than what’s listed, even with the tuition help. He fires off a quick text before moving on to the next appointment in his book: _[This is your doing, isn’t it?]_

His next client takes a few hours, and when he’s able to check his phone, there are a few replies waiting for him. 

_[Beg pardon?]_

_[Ah. The discount. Consider is a gesture of goodwill toward Jyn. And a thank you for your excellent zama-shiwo skills.]_

_[If it bothers you, you can buy me dinner to make up for it. I’m free tomorrow night.]_

Baze’s mouth drops open without any input from him. Radio silence, indeed. He checks the timestamp—twenty-two minutes ago—and types out a quick reply. 

_[Deal. Any preferences on where?]_

He’s barely got his phone back in his pocket when there’s a reply. _[I picked the coffee shop, so I’ll let you choose. If it makes any difference, I’m rather fond baozi.]_

 _[So, Cao Cao’s]_ , Baze replies. 

_[Perfect. 6 o’clock, I’ll meet you there.]_

_[Don’t be late.]_

_[I never am.]_

_[Liar.]_ Baze puts his phone away quickly before this can get out of hand. _What is happening to me?_ Whatever the answer, he knows absolutely and unequivocally that he can’t tell Jyn about his date. 

///

Cao Cao’s is tucked away in a narrow pedestrian-only square of Old Jedha, up on the hill where part of the old temple, so they say, now lies buried. Any local worth their salt knows that Cao Cao’s has the best baozi in the city, and this is a jealously guarded secret, kept from tourists in order to preserve the sanctity of the place. In a way, it’s a temple all its own, Baze thinks. But nostalgia aside, the buns really are damn good. 

He takes the tram up from South Jedha, since traffic is shit at this time of day, and walks the last few blocks on foot. He’s got time to spare, but Chirrut is still there before him, nursing a bowl of tea at one of the tiny aluminum tables lining the walk in front of the baozi stand. He lifts his head and hand in greeting before Baze even says a word, and Baze drops into the opposite chair. 

“I was teasing, you know. About being late.”

“I know,” Chirrut says, smiling with all his teeth. “I’m just very, very competitive.”

Baze glances at the extensive menu laminated to the table beneath a sheet of plexiglass. “Need the menu?”

“Please. I’ve been eating at this stand since I was eight.”

“Five. And I worked the counter when I was a teenager.”

“Show off,” Chirrut huffs. “Fine, you win this one.”

The banter ebbs and flow around the eddies of their conversation through three rounds of tea and a basket of steamed buns. They share a favorite, sweet and spicy pork, with a milder curried potato to clean the barbecue sauce from their palettes before dessert. The food and drink make him lazy, and he stretches his legs out under the table as the night winds on. He says nothing when Chirrut does the same, knocking their feet together. His cane leans against the table, forgotten, and every time he laughs at something Baze has said, it stops the breath in his chest. 

He thinks he’s being subtle. He’s always been bad at flirting, and age has done nothing to help his game. And, though he hates himself a little for thinking it, Chirrut is _blind_. Maybe their calves are glued together under the table, but he can’t see the way Baze can’t take his eyes off him, the way he blushes at Chirrut’s razor-sharp wit and sparkling smile. Chirrut is so… so _much_. Baze isn’t sure why he’s here with Baze, of all people, but he’s determined to soak up every minute. 

He’s lost track of the hour by the time he finally settles the bill. A pittance compared to the “discount” Chirrut gave him for Jyn’s fees, but he hopes quietly that he’ll have more opportunities to pay him back. 

“Walk me home,” Chirrut says when he returns to the table. It would sound like a demand, but his irrepressible smile turns it soft. “It’s not far.”

“All right. Then you can point me in the direction of the nearest tram station.”

“A fair trade,” Chirrut says solemnly. He stands, tucks his cane under his elbow, and offers his arm.

They’ve not touched, really, apart from handshakes—and the _zama-shiwo_ , of course—but Baze is not at all surprised to find him warm and strong and study when he tucks himself in against Baze’s side. “This way,” Chirrut announces, and he leads the way across the square, still strung lazily with pedestrians at this hour. 

Overhead, NaJedha swallows up the sky, making the walk brighter and more lingering than it otherwise might have been. Baze breathes in the smell of blooming nightflowers and cobble, and calms.

“Bit of a mangled drain in another few paces, mind your feet.”

Chirrut laughs softly and squeezes Baze’s forearm with his own. “Thank you, my friend, but I have walked this route many times in the last ten years, and I know every crack and broken cobblestone along it.”

“Oh. Right, of course. I’m sorry.”

“No apologies, please. It’s sweet.” He hesitates. “Just making sure, but you do know I’m holding your arm for reasons other than guidance?”

Baze flushes. “I… had thought so, yes. Maybe.”

Chirrut hums and smiles. “Good. I know Jyn likes to tease you for being slow on the uptake, but I had hoped that it was merely the overexaggeration of youth.”

“You—what? How did you know…?”

“That she’s… ah, invested? Let’s call it a strong hunch.” He smirks. “Or we can call it the Force, if you prefer.”

Baze holds back a snort of disbelief as a memory twigs inside his brain. “Chirrut…”

“Mm?”

“When you came to look—er, to check the design of your tattoo for the first time, you asked me if I believed in the Force. Do you remember?”

“I do,” Chirrut says, sounding cautiously amused. “You _didn’t_ laugh in my face, as I recall.”

“Why did you ask me that? Why _then_?”

“I told you. Idle curiosity.”

“I don’t believe you,” Baze says flatly. 

“Ah yes. The reader of minds. I forgot.” He squeezes Baze’s arm to let him know he’s teasing. “Very well. I’ll tell you, but you must promise not to tease me for it. I’m not asking for your belief, just your respect.”

Baze nods. “Easily done.”

Chirrut’s perpetual good humor seems to fade a bit—not to melancholy, just mellowing, turning introspective. “I didn’t want to tell you then, because I hardly believed it myself, but I… have seen your design before. Yes, seen. In dreams. I haven’t always been blind, although it _did_ come on young, and sometimes I still dream in shapes and colors.” His voice, gone wistful, sharpens again with the razor focus that Baze has come to admire. “I can’t remember the first time, but it’s been a recurring image in my head since I first saw it. I thought it was just a product of my imagination, borne of too many late nights doing research for my thesis. But then I walked into your shop, and felt your energy and passion—and the starbird, just like in my dream.” He trails off, breath seeming to catch a little in his throat. “And I thought to myself, if this isn’t a sign from some higher power, then I really _am_ blind, in more ways than the obvious.”

Baze lets himself chuckle at the joke, but it doesn’t last. “Is that what brought you to my shop? The Force?”

“The Force moves in mysterious ways,” Chirrut says, sounding as if he’s quoting something, but then he laughs it off. “No, simple practicality. As you said, you are the only certified _zama-shiwo_ artist in the city.”

“Not fully certified, really—not by a Master’s standards.”

Chirrut waves a hand. “Near enough as makes no difference. I’m sure if you wanted and were able, you could track down an old Master somewhere out in a godforsaken corner of the desert to take you through the last steps.”

“I would like to,” Baze agrees. “When Jyn is back at school full-time, and when I feel comfortable leaving Bodhi to run the shop on his own for a few weeks. Or months.”

“Would it really take that long?”

Baze shrugs, and their arms rub up close together under their jackets. “Perhaps. I know there are a few trade secrets that I was never made privy to. Prayers and rituals, things that have always been done. I recall a few things, like the candle—you remember?—from Master Yip’s work on me, but not well enough to follow it all perfectly.”

“You have _zama-shiwo_?” Chirrut exclaims. “Forgive me my surprise, I really shouldn’t be—can I ask where and what it is?”

“It’s on my chest. It’s… well, it’s a bit complex. Master Yip and I designed it together. It’s a lot of circles and concentric patterns, supposed to represent the intersection of Ni and NaJedha, the system, the galaxy. And Jedha City at the heart of it. We’re just a small part of the planet, but for me it’s the center of the world.” He feels a flicker of courage and offers, “I’ll show you sometime, if you like. Not now, obviously, but… sometime.”

“I would like that very much,” Chirrut says. “Did it hurt quite a bit?”

“Like fuck,” Baze says bluntly, startling a chortle out of his companion. “It was summer, the hottest on record in a long time, and they burned whenever I sweated so much as a drop. But… it was good. A learning experience. And now I have a connection to Jedha that I can take with me wherever I go.”

“A map to lead you home,” Chirrut says softly. “I love that.”

Baze clears his throat and then falls quiet as something strikes him. _I remember that corner store. We definitely passed this way five minutes ago._

“Baze? Is something wrong?”

“I… don’t want to disparage your superhuman sense of direction, Chirrut, but… I could swear we’ve passed this way before.”

Chirrut sighs wistfully. “Ah, drat. I’ve been discovered.” His voice is apologetic (and his face anything but) as he says, “I confess I’ve been leading us in a bit of a roundabout direction so as not to cut this delightful conversation short. I apologize.”

Baze is dumbfounded. “You’ve been leading us in circles so you could… talk to me?”

“It’s a bit pathetic, I know. I had thought of going straight home and inviting you in for tea, but I’m absolutely full to _bursting_ with tea, and I wasn’t sure if you’d be amenable to a more… direct offer.”

“Amendable,” Baze echoes, trying to parse his meaning.

“Baze. We’re neither of us young men. Surely I don’t have to spell it out for you.”

Baze bites at the little smile flickering on his lower lip. “No, no need. But I’m afraid I really should be getting on home. Not that I’m eager to leave, but…”

“You have responsibilities. I understand.” Neither of them say Jyn’s name, but it’s implied, and Baze relaxes a little to know that he will not be made to resist Chirrut’s considerable charms tonight. “Come, then. We’re just around the corner.” He smiles cheekily. “I promise I’m telling the truth this time.”

Baze just snorts quietly, and holds Chirrut’s arm a little closer to the heat of his body. 

Another minute or two of walking finds them on a quiet residential street lined with pő trees. It’s well after sunset, but not quite bedtime—the sandy avenue is deserted, but windows and doors and shades are thrown open to the dark, and music and snatches of conversation and laughter float out on the soft evening air. It’s a charming backdrop to their private little scene as they climb a set of stairs bolted to the side of a multistorey stucco building, coming to a stop by a narrow glass-paned door that opens onto a veranda. Greenery is all around them, and the smell of life; Baze brushes a palm frond from his face and watches Chirrut digging in his pocket for a key. 

“Nice place,” he says, awkward but sincere. There are no lights on inside, of course, but the sheer tapestry draped behind the door is richly colored, reminding him of the antique wall hangings at his studio, and he can see a cat crouched watchfully in the windowsill behind it. Echo, wherever she is, must be sleeping.

A soft laugh draws his attention back to Chirrut, who is dangling his keys carelessly from one finger. “It’s small, but I’m quite enamored of it. Perhaps next time I can give you a tour.”

Next time. Baze takes a breath and nods, mostly for his own benefit. “I would like that.”

Chirrut’s face is tilted up toward him, mouth soft and smiling, hooded eyes illuminated by the light of the street lamp filtering through the little veranda jungle. He is asking without saying a word—Baze feels it in his bones, somehow. With a delicate touch, Baze lifts a hand to cup his cheek. Chirrut’s eyes flutter closed and his dimples deepen into shadow. 

Baze kisses him. It’s very soft and tender, and he hardly dares to breathe as Chirrut’s lips part for him, tasting of curry and tea and himself. Chirrut hums, content, and lifts his hands to Baze’s shoulders. They skid a moment, hitting his chest, and then up to his neck where they pause as he moves to take a breath. 

“Your hair,” he murmurs. “I didn’t realize it was so long.”

“Really?” His eyes snag on the slight sheen of Chirrut’s lower lip, damp with saliva, and he can’t seem to stop staring. He licks his lips. “It’s… yeah. You can touch, if you want.”

Chirrut makes a pleased little sound in the back of his throat and lifts his hands. His touch is gentle as he feels the high dome of Baze’s forehead, his receding hairline, and then the long, ropey mane tied back in its queue. He brings his fingers to Baze’s ears, barely covered by his hair, and smiles. 

“Do you mind?”

“Go ahead.” 

Baze swallows. Perhaps they should have done this sooner. Now that he knows the taste of Chirrut’s lips, the welcoming curve of his smile, he’s going to have a hard time distancing himself when his looks aren’t to Chirrut’s liking. 

But his fears are unfounded. Chirrut dances feather-light fingertips over Baze’s face—his short beard, his jowls, the furrow between his brows and the bags beneath his eyes—and smiles. “You’re even more handsome than what I imagined from the sound of your voice.”

“My voice?”

“Of course. It’s usually my first point of reference for a person—nothing so shallow as _looks_ , bah.” He smooths a strand of loose hair back from Baze’s forehead and touches his mouth carefully. “Yours is… immense. Low, quiet. Intimate.” He quirks an embarrassed smile. “I fancied you the moment I heard you speak, to be perfectly honest.”

“Hmph.” He can say little else this way, with Chirrut’s thumb resting at the corner of his mouth, but Chirrut laughs delightedly nonetheless.

“ _Hmph_ , he says. Is that all?”

Baze takes his wrist away from his face and kisses the meat of his thumb. Chirrut goes still. “Do you always talk so much when someone is trying to kiss you goodnight?”

“You should know the answer to that question by now,” Chirrut whispers, but the last few syllables are muffled by the heat of Baze’s mouth. 

It’s amazing what a difference five minutes can make, Baze thinks fuzzily. Now Chirrut grips his hair with abandon and sweet familiarity, and his tongue in Baze’s mouth tastes like nothing in particular. Saliva. Heat, banked carefully to a simmer. Baze squeezes his lean hips, and Chirrut hums his earnest approval, their chests leaning together like two trees bowing under the weight of a shared storm. 

Chirrut sighs when they part, deeply, like someone being denied their dearest wish. “I would despise you for teasing me with this and then taking it away, but I can’t, not when you can kiss like that. Mmh.” He leans his head briefly on Baze’s shoulder, just long enough for Baze to sneak a soft, bristly peck to the side of his neck. “Baze!”

“Mph. Sorry.”

“Hmmm. No, don’t be sorry.” His voice is a purr that Baze can feel all down his spine like a caress. But then Chirrut steps away, cheeks taut with regret, and lets his hand brush Baze’s in a _farewell_ sort of gesture. “Thank you for dinner. And your lovely company.”

Baze shakes his head fondly. “I could count on one hand the number of people who have called my company _lovely_.”

“Do you not believe me?” Chirrut pouts. Then he smirks, linking their fingers together. “So mistrustful.”

“My mama taught me to watch out for men whose smiles are wider than their faces can hold,” Baze replies, even as he touches the smile in question with his free hand. “Can I beg directions to the nearest tram? I’m not as familiar with this part of the city.”

“Down the stairs, turn right and walk two blocks. You’ll see the sign when you look left.” Chirrut releases him reluctantly and Baze steps back, putting some space between them. It’s only when he does that he realizes how close they had been standing, practically sharing the same space, breathing the same breath. “Goodnight, Baze.”

“Goodnight, Chirrut.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not exactly being subtle about referencing Donnie and Jiang Wen's other movies, but if you spotted this one I hope it made you smile!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baze is Knife Dad. Jyn attends a protest. Chirrut puckers up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The knife dad joke belongs to griffin mcelroy and the monster factory [x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6ZUxrJhIHnU).
> 
> I've been waiting to post this chapter for five hundred years. Please be advised: more zama-shiwo in this chapter, so... mild gore? Really super tangential mild gore?
> 
> SPOT THE IP MAN REFERENCES there are at least two that I put in there intentionally on purpose!

By the time Chirrut comes around for his next appointment, they’ve had dinner three times and coffee twice, and Jyn keeps giving them _looks_. Thankfully Echo proves to be an ample distraction. Chirrut unbuckles her harness and hangs it on the coat rack next to the door, then gets down on his knees and strokes her head, telling her, “Good job, Echo. Break time.”

Thus released, Echo prances behind the counter and leans soulfully against Jyn’s hip until she deigns to pet her silky, triangular ears and give her a few of the dog treats that Baze now keeps in stock beside the register. With Chirrut’s permission, of course. No treats on the job, but when the harness gets put away, all bets are off.

Baze soon learns that doing _zama-shiwo_ on someone he’s “seeing” (Jyn calls it “courting” because she thinks their slow, sedentary dance is amusing) is a very unique experience. Two new emotions find purchase in the walls of his professionalism as Chirrut undresses and settles himself in the chair: desire, naturally, which is expected and easily compartmentalized; and the fear of doing harm, which is harder to handle. He’s very good at this, he knows, but seeing Chirrut tense and quiver at the cut of his knives is suddenly harder to bear. He tries to refrain from checking in too obsessively, but eventually Chirrut lifts a hand for a break, and Baze instantly feels terrible.

“You okay?”

“Perfectly. But I think that _you_ could use a breather, my friend.”

Baze hesitates in the middle of disinfecting his latest tool. “Sorry?”

“Your hands are as gentle as ever, but I can tell that it pains you now, more than it did before. Perhaps even more than it pains me.”

Baze grimaces. “I doubt that.”

“There is more than one kind of pain.” Chirrut turns carefully, sitting on the edge of the seat so that he can turn his head in Baze’s direction, and holds out his hands. Reluctantly, Baze wipes his own hands clean on a towel and puts them in Chirrut’s waiting palms. “I have overheard Jyn teasing about us,” he says, gentle and without censure. “You mustn’t worry so much about what I think, or what this looks like. She is young, and this is her way of showing her approval.”

Baze thinks of her too-audible crack about knifeplay earlier, and sighs. “She’s a bit of a brat, but if it doesn’t bother you…”

“Not at all. What _does_ bother me, however, is your current distress.” He squeezes Baze’s hands. “Are you all right?”

“I’ve never done… this, before,” Baze admits. “ _Zama-shiwo_ for someone I… am fond of.”

“Fond of?” Chirrut echoes teasingly. “Are you not fond of Bodhi? Or Jyn?”

Baze lifts his eyebrows—he’s quite sure he’s never mentioned Jyn’s _zama-shiwo_ before. “When did she tell you about that?”

“Last week after her class. I stopped in to check up on her progress and we had a nice chat. It’s very beautiful. A crystal feather?”

“Her mother used to wear a clear stone around her neck in the shape of a ginbird’s feather. It took a year of begging, but she eventually persuaded me.”

“Only a year?” He sounds surprised. “She told me three.”

Baze snorts. “She would.” Privately, he’s pleased and relieved to hear that she confided in Chirrut this way. In spite of all her teasing, he feared that her quarrel with the Professor would prevent the easy unfolding of their relationship. But it seems that Chirrut is quickly charming her out of her shell, like he does with everybody. “No, you’re right. My feelings for you are more than simple fondness. But the end result is the same.”

He touches Chirrut’s shoulder lightly, a warning, and leans him forward a little to check on his back. The pale pink of the healing scars swoop beautifully across his shoulder blades, interspersed with the harsher, crueller lines of the fresh cuts. He judges this session a little more than half done—another twenty or minutes or so should suffice. “Looks good. How do you feel?”

“Fresh as a daisy. And you?”

Baze pauses to take stock. “Good. Steady. Shall we continue?”

“Please.” Chirrut turns back and folds his arms beneath his head, pulling the skin of his back taut. Baze picks up the next knife.

He helps Chirrut into his shirt afterward, as before, only this time he gets a little thank-you kiss in return. When he grumbles half-heartedly, Chirrut laughs.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Do you not approve of fraternization in your place of work?”

“I expect professionalism from Jyn and Bodhi—it wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t expect i from myself.” Still, he steals one last kiss before he turns to put his tools away. “Do you have a ride today?”

“I do,” Chirrut replies. Thank goodness. “Young Mr. Andor is giving me a lift to my office. For grading only,” he adds quickly before Baze can protest. “Midterm is coming up, and if I slack now I’ll be buried in term papers for a month. Will you walk me out? I think I hear Cassian now.”

Chirrut’s ears are not wrong. When they come into the front room, Cassian is leaning against the counter in scuffed jeans and a leather jacket with a ridiculous tatty fur collar. Jyn is _on_ the counter, again, charm mode switched to maximum—but not, Baze realizes with some amusement, for her own sake, because Bodhi is also behind the counter, fiddling with some of the jewelry on display, flushed a deep crimson and looking anywhere but at Cassian’s tousled hair and roguish smile.

“Oh excellent, you’re right on time,” Chirrut says. Echo gets up from her station beside the counter and leans against him, but he doesn’t reach for her harness yet.

Even out of his martial arts uniform, Cassian still straightens and gives a deep, respectful nod. “Hello, Master Îmwe. Master Malbus.” He grins and shakes his hand while Baze frowns at the formality. Whills, but these children make him feel old. “I was just telling Jyn and Bodhi about the protest next week.”

A red flag whips up in his mind’s eye. “Protest?”

“A peaceful demonstration only,” Chirrut interjects serenely, lifting a conciliatory hand to Baze’s arm. “I will be sharing a few words, as will Senator Bail Organa. Jyn is certainly most welcome to join us, if she wishes. And Bodhi, of course.”

Baze has heard no inkling of this until now, and he’s a little disgruntled by it. Usually he’s better at keeping his finger on the city’s pulse. There have been a few “demonstrations” in recent months, but nothing recent, and nothing particularly well-organized. But if they have Senator Organa speaking, that’s a different kettle of fish than a few old-timers toting signs. “Dare I ask what you’re protesting?”

“The governor has signed off on a proposal to cut funding to Jedha University,” Cassian explains, his voice colored with righteous fury. “The liberal arts, specifically.” He glances at Chirrut. “So, history, language, stuff like that.”

Baze looks at Chirrut’s untroubled face. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It hasn’t been approved yet,” Chirrut says calmly. “It will have to go up to the City Council for final review.”

“The Council is controlled by the Order,” Cassian says dismissively. “They fucking love anything that has to do with taking knowledge away from the people, they’ll be all over this bill.”

“Language, Cassian,” Chirrut says without batting an eye. “You are right, of course, but we must trust in the Force to guide the hearts of the Council toward the more righteous choice. And in the meantime, we will do what we can to sway them.” He turns to Baze. “You are also welcome to put in an appearance, of course. This isn’t a demonstration solely for the angry youth.” He smiles to take the sting out, but Cassian doesn’t even react, apparently used to his teacher’s commentary.

“Here,” he says, digging in his jacket pocket and pulling out a crumpled flyer. “All the information is on it.”

Baze accepts it with a quiet _thank-you_ and walks them out. Cassian drives a beat-up old Ford, whose sky-blue paint is so rusted and worn away by Jedha’s sand that it hardly looks driveable. But Echo hops right into the back, and Chirrut climbs into the passenger seat as stately as any Councilmember worth their weight in credits, so he just shuts the door behind him and leans through the open window for a kiss when Chirrut puckers up.

Back inside the shop, Jyn is already nose-deep in her phone making plans, and Bodhi is watching her with equal parts fear and fascination on his face. Baze sighs.

“I suppose you both want to go?”

“Yes,” Jyn says instantly, with a fire in her eyes that comes straight from her mother. Beside her, Bodhi chews his lip pensively.

“I… don’t know if I should?”

“Why? You’re not in the military anymore, Bo, you can do whatever you want.” She leans forward earnestly, holding his gaze. “They don’t own you.”

“Jyn,” Baze says quietly, but Bodhi shakes his head.

“No, she’s right. I just… I feel like I owe them? I mean, they paid for my education, should I really be… y’know. Speaking against them?”

“You of _all people_ should be speaking out!” Jyn exclaims. “You know what it’s like on the inside!”

Bodhi looks a little bit alarmed by her fervor, so Baze clears his throat to derail the train of conversation. “Well, you’re both adults and you hardly need my permission, but I’d feel better if I came along. I won’t mother you, I just want to keep an eye on things. Bodhi, you don’t have to go if it makes you uncomfortable, but I don’t think it would be wrong.” He plucks the flyer from the counter and smooths out the wrinkles. “This isn’t an anti-First Order event, they just want to keep funding in place for the University.”

Jyn is very busy trying not to look relieved as she says, “Good idea. You used to be a cop, anyway, so you can stand there are glower and no one will raise their voice above a whisper.”

“Hilarious,” Baze grunts. Bodhi cracks a smile and seems less tense. “All right. Next Saturday at two p.m. in front of the memorial in Old Jedha square. We can park a few blocks away and walk.”

“Why not just take the tram?” Jyn asks.

Baze shrugs, keeps it light. “Just in case.”

Because he would rather be able to hoof it back to his own vehicle on the off-chance that things go sour and public transport gets shut down. Because he doesn’t trust anyone but himself to keep things in line, not even the police who still wear their badges. Not even Chirrut, though he feels a pang of guilt at the thought. He knows Chirrut is very level-headed most of the time, but the discussion they’d had over tea last week when Chirrut started asking about his history with the police force had been… telling.

Chirrut is both sure in his convictions and wildly passionate about them, and he is firmly against the use of force to achieve peace. Baze had been baffled by this, concerning his second job as the owner and operator of a martial arts club, but Chirrut declared that his own personal practice was rooted in honing the body and mind, gaining control over one’s own faculties and environment, not necessarily for use in battle.

“Self-defense is an integral part of how I teach simply for practical reasons. My methods are focused on balance, inner and outer, and confidence. These two traits are the foundation of self-defense and self-care. Whatever slop they taught you at the police academy was all about disarming and disabling your opponent as quickly as possible, even at the expense of their health and safety.”

“Well of course it was,” Baze protested. “If I find myself unarmed and facing someone who would do me harm, isn’t it better that I incapacitate him quickly and avoid as much injury as possible? To him as well as myself?”

They argued in circles for over an hour, never coming to an agreement. Baze would have dearly loved to let him win just to keep this issue from driving a wedge between them, but two things stopped him. First, that Chirrut would undoubtedly be able to tell. And second, that his _slop_ had saved his life once, at the expense of a nasty dealer’s mental faculties, and he would never, ever regret putting the man’s head through a cinderblock wall while the long, serrated knife that had nearly punctured his gut went spinning across the alley cobbles and disappeared harmlessly into the dark.

He didn’t tell Chirrut that story, because the point wasn’t _winning_. He did, however, get a little more upset than he had intended, and though he hid it well, it must have leaked out into his voice enough for Chirrut to notice. Because eventually, just as a frustrated ache was starting to pound behind his eyes, Chirrut sighed, smiled, and took his hand across the table.

“Well,” he said briskly, “it doesn’t really matter. We cannot be of one mind on everything.”

Baze’s dismay subsided, but only a little. How could he be so desperate to keep this man in his life after only a few weeks? _Two months?_ Had it been so long already?

“I’ve killed men,” he said bluntly, though he continued to grip Chirrut’s hand like his life depended on it. “I can’t lie to you about that.”

“And do you regret it?” Chirrut asked calmly.

“I regret that there was a need for it. But I cannot regret the outcome. I am alive, and some of my brothers and sisters in the force are live, because other men are dead. It’s awful, and it’s not something I would ever want to get used to, but I believe it was necessary.”

Chirrut nodded, face quiet and introspective. He was not entirely happy with Baze’s answer, he knew, but in the end he smiled and said, with certainty, “You are a good man, Baze Malbus. I’ve said it before, and I still believe it to be true.”

Baze just sighed, slack with relief and resignation. “ _Tu bha’at_ ,” he said gruffly, and Chirrut laughed.

“Stubborn I will own to, but I’m not the only fool sitting at this table.”

///

Baze thinks now that he might be a fool after all—the central square is _packed_. Had he known it would be this big of an event he might have thought twice about allowing Jyn to bring a sign. [ _Our history is our future \ Don’t erase it_ ] is written in giant red capitals on the piece of cardboard she currently has tucked under her arm. He’s proud of her for making it, but his cop senses are tingling as he takes in the scene from his current vantage point, standing head and shoulders over most of the crowd.

It worries him a little, how easy it comes back to him. Being part of the active Jedhan taskforce was hardly a war zone, but it seems to have left its mark on him anyway. The square feels closed-in to him, the narrow streets preventing a clear view of the surrounding area. There are a few police officers stationed around, but they’re staying well out of the way and have their hands in plain sight for the most part, clasped in front of them or hooked into their belts like they’re on a Sunday picnic. Still, Baze flicks his eyes from corner to corner, judging the swiftest exit and where reinforcements would be most likely to come from.

After a few minutes, though, it becomes clear that Chirrut’s promise is holding true: this is a calm, peaceful demonstration, with witty signs everywhere and more than one young family in attendance, fathers holding up their children on their shoulders to better see the square. At the center, people knot together, chanting jaunty rhymes about preserving the sanctity of Jedha City’s history. On the fringes they mill about with flags and clipboards, taking names for volunteer efforts. Overall the effect is almost carnival-like, helped along by the demographic of those in attendance, which is overwhelmingly young—in Baze’s eyes, anyway—and full of optimism.

“Baze, look!” Jyn grabs his hand suddenly, pointing through the crowd. “There’s Leia’s mum and Professor Îmwe. They look like they’re going to start soon, let’s try and get close.”

_Let’s get close_ apparently translates to Baze fighting a path through the crowd, an easy enough task given his height and breadth. In a few minutes they’ve reached their goal: an enormous sandstone obelisk, chipped and worn from centuries of sand, with faint markings visible towards the top where people haven’t been able to scrub them away with their curious fingers. It dominates the square, said to be one of the foundational pillars of the old temple. A sort of stone platform lifts it up from the cobbles, and it’s here at the edge of the dais that Chirrut and Dr. Organa are holding court.

It sounds silly in his head, but it’s the only way he can think to describe it. They are dressed similarly in the robes of their department: long, flowing black fabric slit up the sides to the hip and crossed with scarlet sashes identifying their level of education. They’re wearing jeans and street shoes underneath, but they somehow manage to look regal and mysterious anyway, especially with their dark heads bent together as they talk. Echo isn’t anywhere to be seen, but Cassian is there, standing at attention like some kind of court herald, his ever-present fur-lined jacket now studded with colorful pins. He waves when he sees them approaching, and bends to whisper something in Chirrut’s ear.

“Ah!” He lifts his head, grinning at nothing in particular. “You came! Baze, I was not expecting you. Jyn, so glad you could join us. Do you know Breha Organa?”

There’s a quick round of introductions--Leia is there, too, materializing out of the crowd when she recognizes Jyn--and then the young people cluster up and move away a little to join in a chant. Without quite meaning to, Baze finds himself standing like a sentinel at Chirrut’s side where he sits, sagelike, at the obelisk’s foot. He startles at the touch of Chirrut’s hand and then forces himself to calm down. _This is a demonstration, Malbus. Not a riot, for Force’s sake!_

“You are tense,” Chirrut says, pitching his voice for Baze’s ears alone. “Do you see anything that is cause for concern?”

_I don’t see nearly enough_ , Baze thinks, but he decides not to voice it. “If you’re not worried, then neither am I,” he declares with more certainty than he feels.

Chirrut laughs. “I appreciate your faith in me, but I am not omniscient. And you were once an officer, so your instincts are likely far more honed than mine.”

“My instincts are jumpy and underused,” Baze admits, lowering himself with some reluctance to sit beside him. The vantage point isn’t quite as good from here, but Chirrut can hear him better this way, and that seems like the more important thing right. It feels so natural that he hardly notices the way Chirrut’s lingering touch turns into a hand in his, folded together on the sun-warm stone. “Do you do this kind of thing often, then?”

“Careful, Baze,” Chirrut laughs, “that was very nearly a terrible pickup line. And if by _this sort of thing_ you mean leading demonstrations, then no, not particularly. My normal activist milieu is a little quieter. I advise the social justice club on campus,” he explains, and Baze shakes his head.

“Your fingers are in an awful lot of pies, Professor. Don’t you ever take a break?”

“Now and then,” Chirrut says, smiling. “I’m an energetic person. If I don’t fill my days with activity, I fear I’ll grow slow and stagnant.” His smile falters for a moment. Baze has a sudden vision of Chirrut, perhaps a few years older, alone in his apartment with nothing to do—no papers to grade, no children to teach—and felt a twist of empathy in his gut.

“I think I can safely say you’re in no danger of _that_.” He holds Chirrut’s hand a little tighter, and is rewarded when he feels a gentle squeeze back.

“Chirrut,” Organa says suddenly, turning back to their sphere. “I’m going to start in moment.”

“Thank you, Breha. I’m ready when you are.” He holds a little tighter when Baze makes to draw away. “If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate you staying. Just stand here—Breha and I are going to stand up on the pedestal, and if anything seems off to you, give my foot a squeeze.” He lifts said foot out from under the folds of his academic robe, and Baze laughs to see that he’s wearing sandals.

“It’s a deal,” he says, and pats Chirrut’s thigh.

/

Breha Organa has a good voice for public speaking: pitched low but clear, carrying easily over the crowd through the tinny but serviceable speakers situated about the square. Baze tries to pay attention, but it’s difficult—his focus is too busy being trained elsewhere.

From here he can see a good portion of the square, all the way to the battered sign for Cao Cao’s across the way where they’d had dinner a few weeks ago. He counts the grey uniforms that he can see. Three, four… a few more in that corner. Two by the pylons that mark the beginning of the main road. A loose corral around the fringes of the crowd, faces slack and shoulders free of tension. _Nothing to see here_. Baze realizes he’s been unconsciously mimicking the same stance, drilled into him over the years, and he doesn’t try to shake it off.

He can see Jyn, too, standing between Cassian and Leia a few rows back in the crowd. Her face has been painted with Jedha’s colors, brilliant red and ochre splotches on her cheeks and nose, and she holds her sign high and proud even as she listens. Baze smiles behind his mustache. Lyra would be proud.

A sudden roar of applause jolts him, and his hand finds the lip of the sandstone dais as his heart pounds uselessly in his ears. _Calm down, Malbus. Nothing to see here. Nothing to see._ It’s something he learned very early on after graduating from the academy. People like him, big and broad—built like a brick shithouse, Jyn would say—command attention. Unwelcome attention, sometimes. So hunch your back, keep your eyes soft, loose the jaw, let your hands swing open at your sides. You are trustworthy. _Here to protect the people. Nothing to see._

“Thank you for coming here today. To hear so many friendly voices, familiar and not, is such an encouragement.” Chirrut’s voice rings out, distorted by the speakers, a little bit of an echo clinging to Baze’s ear. He tilts his head to try and filter it out, but it can’t be helped—Chirrut is standing right behind him, and he can hear each word as it leaves his mouth, once, twice, as the old sound system picks them up just a split second later. So Baze shuts it off entirely.

He hopes Chirrut won’t be offended, but he can’t concentrate on his speech _and_ on the squad car that’s just pulled up on the other side of the square. The lights aren’t spinning, and the officer inside stays put while his partner leans nonchalantly on one of the pylons. There isn’t enough space between them for the car to fit through, even if they wanted to.

Baze rubs his thumb against the stone and lets the cadence of Chirrut’s voice wash over him, the slight accent of Upper Jedha clinging to his r’s and l’s. A few buzzwords slip through: _knowledge of our past, shared history, a culture worth preserving._ He does not raise his voice or use angry words—standing there listening with only a fraction of an ear, he thinks absently that Chirrut has an excellent voice for radio.

He doesn’t even notice Bail Organa standing next to him until he’s right there, flanked by two innocuous bodyguards. How they got through the crowd unnoticed and undisturbed, Baze has no idea—perhaps they were there the whole time. He glances at him, taking in the full Council regalia and the little slip of paper clasped in his hand—speech notes?—and away again. Jyn catches his eye and grins, eyes alight with the thrill of solidarity. Baze smiles back. _Nothing to see. Everything is going to be fine._

There’s a mixed reaction from the crowd when Councilman Organa climbs up onto the dais. Some enthusiastic clapping, particularly from Jyn and Leia, and some… less enthusiastic grumbles of discontent. Sentiment against the Council is more prevalent than Baze had thought. He folds his arms, stands a little straighter. The men Organa brought with him are professionals, but a little more obvious muscle up here can’t hurt.

But it doesn’t stop the muttering. While Organa stands above the crowd offering platitudes and compliments, Baze can hear what goes on below: _why is he here? Does he think we don’t know who controls the Council? He’s a puppet. An Order puppet. His words are empty._

Baze chews the inside of his cheek. Even from here, the volume of the crowd has risen—it’s at that awkward stage where the sound of the people vies against the sound of the microphone, and the Councilman is still trying to pretend that everything is fine, raising his voice and injecting an unnecessary amount of joviality into his words.

The hair on the back of Baze’s neck prickles. His head turns, eyes swallowing up the crowd like a satellite diving into deep space, and ice fills his veins. There’s a fucking _tank_ at the edge of the square, just at the corner of his field of vision. He fumbles behind him, feels for Chirrut’s foot, and grips hard.

A whisper of cloth on stone, and Chirrut drops to his knees behind him, one hand on his shoulder for balance. “What is it?” he whispers. He sounds as on edge as Baze feels, but he would have to be deaf as well as blind not to feel the tension between the Councilman’s sunny words and the restless crowd. “What do you see?”

“They’re bringing in reinforcements,” Baze says over his shoulder. The crowd hasn’t noticed, yet, too focused on being angry at Councilman Organa’s strained platitudes, but once they do… “If things go sour, I’m going to grab your hand and you’re going to follow me exactly, all right?”

“I hardly think that will be necessary,” Chirrut says firmly. He stands up before Baze can argue with him, cane planted firmly on the dais, and leans in to say something to Breha. _Dammit._

“Councilman Organa, what is the Order hiding from us?”

Oh gods, he’s actually opened it up to questions. _Is he mad? They’re going to tear him apart._

“The Council of Jedha is not formally affiliated with the First Order—”

The rest of his sentence is drowned out by shouting. The tide is turning. Baze silently curses Chirrut’s promise of a _peaceful demonstration_ and searches for Jyn. Her sign is starting to sag, and she’s got a worried wrinkle on her brow as she meets his eyes. He beckons, but she shakes her head—through a gap in the crowd, he can see that she’s got her hand linked firmly with Leia’s, whose earlier enthusiasm has drained away to dread.

Glass shatters overhead, and everyone ducks. Someone threw a glass bottle at the obelisk. He can’t see exactly where it hit, but it doesn’t matter—Organa is being hustled away with his wife, and everywhere is chaos.

Just like that, a switch flips in Baze’s head, and he grows calm. “Don’t move!” he yells to Chirrut above the swelling noise, and he shoves his way into the crowd. Jyn, thank heaven, is right where he last saw her, standing firm between Leia and Cassian as they’re buffeted like ships in a gale. He takes her shoulder and looks straight at her, willing her to listen. “Jyn, you remember where we left the car?” At her tremulous nod, he folds the keys into her hand and holds her closed fist tightly. “I need you to go there now. Cut across the square that way.” He points low, through the sea of people. Police officers are encroaching swiftly from all corners, but he can see that the exit on the opposite side of the square is still clear. “Keep your head down and go, don’t stop for anything. Drive home, I’ll meet you there.”

“I’m not leaving without you!” she says mulishly, but Cassian is already tugging on her arm.

“Your dad can take care of himself. C’mon, we have to go. I promised I’d keep Leia out of trouble.”

Baze honestly doesn’t give a flying fuck about the other two teenagers right now, but if they’ll get Jyn safely away from here, that’s good enough for him. He grips the back of her neck and kisses her forehead roughly. “Go. I’ll be fine, I promise. _Go_.”

More shattering glass, and this time he can feel a few tiny slivers stinging against the back of his neck. Jyn ducks away and disappears into the crowd, not letting go of her friends. Baze lets out a breath and turns around.

Chirrut is still standing on the dais, well above most of the crowd—his back is flat to the sandstone pillar, cane held in front of him almost protectively. Hyper-refined senses or no, he looks lost, like he’s trying desperately to cling to a single, slippery needle that’s on the verge of falling into a haystack. He seems to be muttering something to himself, but Baze can’t make it out from this distance. He’d only stepped a few feet away, but somehow the space between them has grown, flooded with bodies and flailing limbs as people fight with police officers, butting up against their riot shields like flies throwing themselves against a glossy windowpane.

Baze cups his hands to his mouth. “ _Chirrut!_ ”

Chirrut’s head turns, seeking the source of his voice, and Baze shoves forward. He has a few precious seconds before the gap closes and Chirrut is walled off behind the riot police.

There’s a very soft _pop_ in his ear, like a muffled slap. It’s almost lost to the dull roar of the crowd, but Baze hears it. Baze _sees_ it. Sees Chirrut jerk where he stands, sees the blood drain from his face. His black robes hide the evidence and Baze blinks hard, refusing to believe it until Chirrut sways and sags to one side, his cane slipping out from under his weight as he falls to his knees.

Left behind at about shoulder height, there’s a new pockmark in the obelisk, splashed with a smear of violent red as if the stone itself were bleeding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls stay tuned for tomorrow's update, everything is going to be ok <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baze makes a list. Bodhi has a mysterious past. Galen exits stage left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An extra long chapter to make up for yesterday!

“CHIRRUT!”

He’s at his side in a blink, and yet it seems to take forever, wading through the crush, shoving people off him when they try to pull him away. He gets to Chirrut before he can crumple entirely, saving him from a nasty fall off the dais, and gathers him into his arms. The cane drops from numb fingers and rolls away, forgotten, as Baze presses one hand to his shoulder.

“Baze…” Chirrut whispers. His teeth have started to chatter. “That… hurt.”

Baze curses him in Jedhan even as he tears his fancy sash away and packs it against the bullet wound. A quick glance shows him it’s fairly superficial—it caught the top of his shoulder as it passed by, sinking into the pillar—but the furrow it left behind is bleeding heavily.

“You’re a thrice damned idiot, Chirrut Îmwe,” he mutters, glancing around. The gunshot has dimmed some of the crowd’s fervor, at least, and there’s a small pool of space around them, enough that he can lay Chirrut on the ground and prop him up against his own body while he pushes against the wound. “Someone call a fucking ambulance, would you?”

He’s only a little appeased when it turns out there was one on call, sitting out of sight around the corner from Cao Cao’s. Only a little, because it takes time for the medics to push through the crowd with a stretcher, and then when they finally get Chirrut into the ambulance, Baze isn’t allowed to come with. _Not enough room_ , they tell him, because some idiot got heatstroke or a seizure or something that Baze can’t be bothered to remember, and Chirrut is calling his name in a weak voice and he _can’t come_.

He’s a little sick to his stomach by the time it’s over. Standing by himself on the edge of the square, sirens blaring in the distance as the last of the rioters disperse—either voluntarily, or in handcuffs. Baze stirs himself, finally, and decides he might as well see if Jyn left with the car. He hopes she did, but if she hasn’t, it won’t be the first time she’s disobeyed him.

In spite of his hopes, he nearly weeps with relief when he turns the corner and finds his old sedan idling at the corner where he’d left it. Jyn is sitting behind the wheel, gripping it with white knuckles and a flat-mouthed expression, but when she sees him approach she throws herself out of the vehicle and runs to him.

“Baze! Are you okay? Where’s Chirrut?” Her eyes snag on his hands, still bloody, and she turns vaguely green. “Dad…?”

“I’m fine, Jyn-feather,” he says wearily, taking her into his arms. She doesn’t make a peep about getting blood on her clothes and just hugs him back—so tight it hurts, but the good kind of hurt. “Chirrut… is going to be okay. He got hurt, but it’s not serious.” _It’s not._ Logically he knows it, knows Chirrut is in good hands, but he can still feel his body, so limp and still in Baze’s arms, can still feel the hot pulse of blood under the wad of silk shoved against his shoulder. “He’s going to be fine.”

Jyn pulls back with a suspicious sniffle, and dashes a hand across her eyes. “Where is he? What happened?”

“Some cock-sure cop fired a shot. It was probably just meant to frighten people, but it grazed Chirrut. He’s on the way to the hospital now.” Baze squeezes his hands into fists at his sides, hating the way the dried blood pulls at his skin. “Do we have wipes in the car?” he asks tiredly. “I need to…”

“Yeah, just a second. I’ve got it.”

Wet wipes are produced from the glove compartment, which is when Baze realizes that Cassian and Leia are in the back seat. The _Councilman’s daughter_ is in his back seat. Dammit. He cleans his hands off as quickly as he can and says, “Is there someone you need to call? Somewhere safe I can take you?”

“I texted my mum,” Leia answers, voice quavering but eyes steady. “If you can drop me off around the corner from the Consulate I’d be much obliged.”

Baze nods and climbs into the car. “Cassian? What about you?”

The boy chews anxiously at his lower lip. “Master Îmwe…”

Baze grunts and peels away from the curb. “Believe me, it’s on my list.”

///

Baze’s phone rings in his pocket as he’s pulling into the hospital parking garage. He answers it without looking and feels like he’s been punched in the stomach with relief when Chirrut’s voice comes through, soft but steady, “Baze? Are you all right? Are you safe?”

“Safe as houses,” he says, putting the car in park. Jyn leans over the console and puts her cheek on his shoulder to listen in, and he lets her. “So are the kids. What about you?”

“A bit… out of it. But I’m all right. The wound was superficial, they just stitched me up and gave me some painkillers. Listen, Baze… I don’t want to, to inconvenience…”

“Chirrut.” He glances in the rearview mirror at Cassian’s anxious face and decides _to hell with it_. He’s earned the right to a few pet names. “Sweetheart, I’m getting out of the car right now and coming into the hospital, and I’m going to take you home to rest. Okay?”

“Oh—okay.” Chirrut is quiet for a moment. “You’re really here?”

“I’m really here.” _Stay put_ , he mouths to Jyn and Cassian, and he gets out of the car. Thank goodness Bodhi ended up staying home—he doesn’t know if he has the patience for that many pairs of soulful eyes staring at him as he leaves the parking garage. “Where are you? Did they put you in a room, or…?”

“I’ve already been discharged. I’m in reception.” He can hear Chirrut swallow, and wonders what kind of drugs they gave him. _No cane, no dog, no one he knows… fucking hell_. He picks up the pace, shouldering his way through the double doors. “I can see you,” Chirrut whispers in his ear, and it sounds like he’s smiling. He hangs up.

Baze turns the corner and Chirrut is there at the end of a row of chairs, sitting with his head against the wall and his arm in a sling. He looks pale, and his face is gleaming with sweat, but his eyes are heavy-lidded and his mouth is soft and comfortable. “You idiot,” Baze tells him, reaching out to touch his cheek. “How could you possibly see me?”

“The Force,” Chirrut slurs. He grapples for Baze’s hand and hangs on after a few false starts, leaning into him now instead of the wall. “It told me you were coming.”

“Uh-huh.” Dubious, he puts an arm around his waist to help him stand. His black robes are gone, leaving him in a bloody white shirt, the left arm cut away to make room for his bandages, and his jeans and sandals. “How the hell did you get discharged like this? You’re practically hallucinating.”

“I told them someone was coming to pick me up. And you did! How about that?” Chirrut’s lips purse in exaggerated thought. “I feel like I’m meditating, but also experiencing the passage of time. How can this be?”

“Drugs,” Baze offers. “Come along, dear one, before you fall down.”

But Chirrut resists. “I can’t. Baze, my cane—”

“It’s lost, Chirrut, I’m sorry. I’ll—I’ll get you a new one.” He suddenly feels horribly guilty. Why hadn’t he thought to grab it as they carried Chirrut away? “I’ll have Cassian bring Echo, okay? Will that be all right?”

“Yes… yes.” Chirrut sighs and leans against him, finally allowing Baze to walk him out into the sunlight. “Baze?”

“Hm?”

“Where are we going?”

“I’m bringing you to my house. Jyn and Cassian are with us, too.” He pauses to make sure Chirrut’s arm is secure in its sling and the bandages are in place before helping him into the passenger seat of his car. Jyn and Cassian are very quiet in the back seat, and Chirrut hums, apparently content with this turn of events. “Just close your eyes, take a nap. We’ll be there in no time.”

///

Baze feels as if he hasn’t been home in ten years. All he wants is to have a nice long soak in the bath and maybe nurse a few fingers of Maz’s famous homebrew, but the day’s not over yet. He tosses the keys to Cassian and tells him to be careful, and helps Chirrut to the bedroom with Jyn trailing behind, a silent, hand-wringing shadow.

“Can I do anything?” she whispers, watching as Baze helps Chirrut to lie down. His room is fairly spartan, thank goodness, but he moves his book and reading glasses off the bed and makes a mental note to pick up yesterday’s clothes off the floor. “I can… I don’t know, make tea? Or coffee?”

“Coffee would be good, Jyn, thank you.” He squeezes her shoulder briefly before she can slip away. “Hey. I’m glad you’re safe.”

She plasters on a watery smile and hugs him tightly. “You too,” she whispers, and flees.

In bed, Chirrut is already struggling with his sling, and Baze hurries to stop him. “Wait, wait, stop that. You shouldn’t take that off.”

“It’s just to keep my arm from being jolted,” Chirrut complains, groggy but determined. “I don’t need it if I’m going to be laying down, and I don’t like being tied up.” He blinks and pouts his lower lip out exaggeratedly. “Please?”

Baze sighs. “Fine. But let me. Do you have your medication?”

“Pocket,” Chirrut says. “Can you take my pants off?” He sniggers. “Not how I’d imagined our first time, if I’m honest, but I’ll take what I can get.”

Baze rolls his eyes. “Chirrut, honestly.”

“What? I’m dopey, not dead. And my shoulder hurts,” he whines, which Baze takes to mean that he’s feeling better—no doubt it still aches, but if he’s complaining about it, it’s not that bad. Stoicism worries Baze more than whining at this point.

“One thing at a time, okay? Let’s get you into something more comfortable.”

It’s a bit of a production, but Baze manages to get him out of his jeans and ruined shirt and into a pair of Baze’s sleep pants. They’re ridiculously big on him, but Baze pulls the drawstring snug and ties a little bow, and it suffices. Chirrut, for some reason, is delighted by this, and won’t stop playing with the knot even when Baze scolds him. He decides to cut his losses and avoid attempting to put a shirt on him. The pill bottle he rescues from the pocket of his discarded jeans, and after checking the dosage he puts it on the bedside table and sets a timer on his phone for four hours.

“Baze!” Chirrut stage-whispers. “My tattoo—the _zama-shiwo_ , can you look? Is it ruined?”

Baze growls indistinct curses under his breath. “Really? _That’s_ what you’re worried about?”

“Yes! Of course I’m worried! This is a very important investment, Baze. Please, you have to check. Look and tell me if it’s okay.”

Baze sighs and reaches for him, helping him to sit up slowly. It’s hard to tell with the bandaging, but the way the bullet clipped his shoulder seems to have missed the lines of the starbird’s left wing. “You’re fine, Chirrut,” he mutters. He lays his palm flat between his shoulderblades to feel the scarring, and Chirrut leans into the touch, into him. His eyes are still heavy-lidded with pain medication, but there’s a wicked curl to his mouth that Baze doesn’t trust.

“Baze…”

There’s a gentle tap on the half-open door and Jyn pokes her head in, carrying a tray of mugs. “Dad? I’ve got coffee here, if you want it. And tea.”

“Oh, tea!” Chirrut says, too loudly. He tries to sit up fully and scowls when Baze presses him back down to the pillow with a hand to his bare chest. “Baze, stop mothering me. I’m _fine_.”

“You should sleep,” Baze tells him, beckoning Jyn inside. “But I suppose a little tea wouldn’t hurt.”

Satisfied at last that everyone is safe and comfortable, Baze pulls up the wicker chair in the corner and sits by the bed with a sigh. The coffee is strong and cut with the perfect amount of cream, and he cradles it to his chest for the warmth and aroma as Jyn fusses over Chirrut. _She_ mothers him more than Baze did, but Chirrut doesn’t complain—he just calls her _dear girl_ , and tsks gently when she sniffles and says, in a trembling voice that’s very unlike her, “This is all my fault.”

“Goodness, Jyn, it isn’t your fault at all,” Chirrut soothes before Baze can dredge up words of comfort. “What on earth makes you say that?”

“If… if I hadn’t come, Baze could’ve kept you safe.” _Sniff_. “But he was worried about me, and then you got shot…” She trails off to scrub furiously at her face with both hands, and Chirrut reaches out with his good arm, patting her shoulder when he makes contact.

“Don’t be silly, you can’t know what would have happened. And it’s hardly serious, anyway. I barely feel it now.” He pats the mattress with his right hand. “Come here, help me with my tea. I don’t trust Baze not to spill it all over me.”

Baze snorts, but doesn’t protest—she needs this, needs to feel useful. After only a slight hesitation, Jyn climbs into bed beside Chirrut and holds the mug to his lips. “Like this?”

“Perfect.”

Baze must doze off in spite of the coffee, because the next thing he knows, Chirrut is snoring gently and Jyn is curled up next to him with her cheek resting on his good shoulder, sleeping. Baze smiles to see them like this—Chirrut buried under mounds of blankets and Jyn on top of them, wearing one of Baze’s ratty police academy sweatshirts—when the noise that woke him comes again. A swift, distant rap of knuckles on wood. Someone is at the door.

 _Cassian_ , he thinks, but unease clings to him like cobwebs as he gets out of the chair and moves through the house to the side door, rarely used since it opens onto the little parking lot for the dim sum restaurant downstairs. Through the frosted window he can make out a tall, dark shape, standing erect as if at attention. Not Cassian, then.

He makes a snap decision and goes to the linen closet down the hall. A quick press in the right place opens a hidden compartment at the back, and he pockets the handgun he keeps there before going to the door. Another rap, brisk and military-like. He sets his jaw and opens the door.

Galen Erso stands on the other side of it, hand still lifted mid-knock. He is alone, as far as Baze can tell, but he can see the black vehicle he came in parked across the street, windows tinted against whatever number of Order agents sit inside. Galen clears his throat and nods when Baze says nothing, straightening the bottom of his uniform jacket.

“Mr. Malbus. I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

Baze takes a moment to wonder what he looks like—eyes haggard, hair a mess, dressed in rumpled jeans and a shirt that still smells of hospital antiseptic and sweat—and decides he doesn’t much care. “Want to come in?” he asks shortly.

Galen dips his chin. “If you don’t mind.”

The door closes behind them with a snap and Baze turns his back on him, going to the kitchen. It’s the farthest room from the master bedroom, and he doesn’t want Jyn waking up if he can help it.

“Where’s Jyn?” Galen asks. His watery grey eyes take in his surroundings, curious and calculating, but Baze doesn’t care enough to be embarrassed about the dishes in the sink or the detritus left on the table from Jyn’s “homework.”

“She’s safe,” Baze says shortly. “Why are you here, Galen?”

“I need to see her. I need to know for certain she’s all right.” When Baze doesn’t react, Galen’s steely expression falters and a thread of panic leaks into his voice. “Baze, please. I know she was at the riot—I saw the footage. And you—you _abandoned_ her, you—”

“Shut up,” Baze says quietly, but with feeling. “Jyn is almost nineteen years old, she’s not a child. I did what I could to get her to safety in the short amount of time I was given, and she’s _fine_.”

“She shouldn’t have been there at all!”

Baze inhales and lets it go again, calming himself. “Like I said. She’s a young woman, Galen, not the little girl you remember. If I had tried to prevent her from going, she would have found some other way. Better that I was there, keeping an eye on things, than letting her slip out the window without my knowledge.” He lifts a hand when Galen moves to protest. “I’ll go see if she wants to talk to you in person. If she doesn’t, so be it—you’re going to have to take me at my word that she’s fine. All right?”

“I’m her _father_ ,” Galen says desperately. “You can’t—”

“I think you’ll find that I _can_.” He shakes his head. “You signed the papers yourself to keep her safe, Erso. Until she’s twenty-one, I am her legal guardian, and there’s nothing you can do to change that. Now. I’m going to go ask her if she wants to see you. You’re going to stay here and behave, all right? No snooping.”

Galen’s mouth thins, but he nods agreement, so Baze leaves him standing by the kitchen table and goes into the master bedroom.

It seems a crime to wake her. Her face is utterly calm and smooth in a way that it never is when she’s awake, and her hand is tucked up against her face, almost as if she’s about to start sucking her thumb. She looks pale against Chirrut’s golden skin, but healthy, her hair in a wild tangle around her flushed face. Baze leans over the bed and touches her cheek gently.

“Jyn-feather. Hey. Wake up, sweetheart.”

Her nose wrinkles first, disturbing the smoothness of her brow, and then she wakes up entirely and realizes where she is. “Um. Hi.” He should have taken a picture, he realizes belatedly as she slides out of bed with care. Oh, well. “What’s up? Is Cassian back yet?”

“Not yet. Jyn, listen.” He joins her by the other side of the bed, turning his back to the sleeping Chirrut. “You don’t have to go, but your dad’s downstairs and he wants to see you.”

Jyn freezes. “What?”

“He said he’s worried about you, after the… protest.” He watches her face carefully, but her expression gives nothing away. “I can tell him to leave, if you want.”

Jyn shakes her head. “I’ll go.” She lifts her hand to her head as if to smooth her hair, then stops. Looks down at herself. Shrugs, and leaves the room.

Baze wants to follow, but he refrains, at least for now. Instead he busies himself picking up a little, clearing the floor of potential obstacles. He tries not to listen to the rise and fall of voices, but it’s hard. They don’t sound angry, at least—a small blessing.

“Baze?”

Chirrut’s murmured voice snaps his attention back around like a rubber band and Baze goes to him, no hesitation. His phone tells him there’s another three hours to go before his next dose of painkillers, but he feels his forehead anyway, letting his hand rest in the hollow of his cheek. “How do you feel?”

“Mmh… fine. I heard… voices?” He cranes his head around. “Where’s Jyn?”

“Having a chat with someone,” Baze says evasively. The front door opens and shuts, and he hears the click of paws on the hardwood floor. “I’ll be right back. Stay here.”

He walks into the living room just in time to watch the collision. Bodhi and Cassian burst in in tandem, shoulder to shoulder, with Echo bounding ahead of them, obviously smelling her master somewhere in the house. Jyn jumps up from the couch to welcome her, and Galen stands too, stiff and unpracticed—and then Bodhi catches sight of him and stops abruptly, yanking himself away from Cassian so quick that he nearly drops the cardboard box of dog-related things he brought from Chirrut’s apartment. There is perfect silence.

“Um,” says Jyn. “Bo? You okay?”

“Mr. Rook, what a pleasant surprise.” Galen’s voice is dry as a desert—it rather sounds as if he’s never seen anything pleasant ever in his life. “Baze, I was unaware that you had opened a shelter for wayward youths. And… dogs.”

“The dog is mine, actually,” says Chirrut from somewhere behind Baze’s shoulder. “Would someone kindly explain what is going on? Who is that man, and why is there such a hubbub? I’m supposed to be _resting_.”

Baze shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers. _Oh my god, Chirrut, for **once**_ _could you just stay put?_ “Galen, I think you’d better leave. This isn’t a good time.”

“So I see. Forgive me for intruding. Jyn…” He holds out his arms and she steps into them after only the slightest hesitation. It’s wrong, but a vindictive spike of satisfaction kickstarts in Baze’s chest at that miniscule pause. “It was good to see you. I’m glad you’re doing well.” He pets her hair back from her face and kisses her forehead.

“You should visit more often,” Jyn mumbles. She lets go reluctantly and stares up at him from under his fringe. “I never get to see you.”

“Work keeps me busy, Jyn, you know that.” He speaks more softly and tenderly to her than Baze has ever heard him speak to anyone—except Lyra, of course. Baze has never known Galen very well, but he knows enough to know he loved his wife dearly. And his daughter. That alone is enough to keep him from throwing Galen out of the house full stop. “I’ll call you in a few days. No more demonstrations, okay?”

Jyn huffs. “No promises.”

“Jyn.” The room is deadly still as Galen’s voice grows sharper. “I mean it. The Order—” He stops as if checking himself, and then continues in a softer tone. “The Order doesn’t take kindly to insurrectionists, honey. You know that. Just look at what happened to Saw.”

Jyn’s slim shoulders go rigid. “Why? What happened to Saw?”

Galen winces very slightly. “It doesn’t matter. Just… be safe. Please.” He catches Baze’s eye over her head. “Keep her safe for me.”

“I always do,” Baze says gruffly. “Here, I’ll walk you out.”

There is no incident as Galen leaves the house, and Baze breathes a little sigh of relief as he latches the bolt shut behind him. Then he turns around. Bodhi has retreated to the kitchen and, from the sound of it, is brewing a new pot of coffee as loudly as possible. Jyn is on the couch, lower lip protruding moodily as she rests her chin on her hands, and Cassian stands adrift between them, unsure where to go.

Baze sighs. “Where’s Chirrut?”

“Back to bed,” Cassian offers. “He took Echo with him. Should I, um…?”

“Please, feel free to stay.” He jerks his chin toward the kitchen. “I think Bodhi could use a friend.”

“Oh! Yeah, right. I’ll just, uh, go… do that.” Cassian tucks his chin into his fur collar and slopes into the kitchen.

Satisfied that those two are out of the way, or at least out from underfoot, Baze sits down next to Jyn, leaving enough space between them that she has some breathing room. “Hey, kiddo. Okay?”

Jyn’s mopey expression turns stubborn. “What happened to Saw?”

Baze rubs his beard. “He was arrested a few weeks ago. The Order has him sitting in prison until they can figure out what official charges to press. I’m sorry, Jyn, I thought you knew.”

She shakes her head. “I… I had no idea. I would’ve thought someone would tell me—it’s not like they don’t know where I live.” She gives a short huff of stale laughter. “I guess I wasn’t even worth that much to him.”

“Jyn…”

“No, don’t. I know he was an asshole, okay? Why do you think I kept running away? All his mumbo jumbo about _resistance_ and _an eye for an eye_. I _know_.” She scrubs her face and leans abruptly into him, too hard to be affectionate. “But I’m still… I don’t know.” She picks at a loose thread sticking out of her leggings. “He was all I had, for a while. And what will happen with the protests? Saw was half the reason anyone gave a shit about what the Council was doing.”

“Saw is a hard man to deal with,” Baze says, choosing his words with care. “He has his beliefs, and he’s very… militant about them. It might be better for the Council if he’s off the streets.”

“Better for the Order, you mean.”

“Not necessarily. Gerrera made himself an enemy of the Council instead of an ally. I know it’s easy to lump the Council and the Order into one, but there _are_ counselors who stand against the Order’s ideologies. Their voices will be louder without Saw’s drowning them out.”

“Hmm. Maybe.” Jyn shifts, curling her knees under her instead of hugging them to her chest protectively. “Baze… what happened just now…”

“Mm? What about it?”

“Does Papa know Bodhi? He called him _Mr. Rook_ and Bo freaked out.”

“You’d have to ask Bodhi. It wouldn’t surprise me if they knew each other—Bodhi has said he used to fly a lot between Jedha City and Scarif Base when he was in the Air Force.”

“Yeah. That makes sense.” Jyn looks very tired all of a sudden, and so much like her mother that Baze’s stomach clenches. Then she wrinkles her nose and is a girl again. “I’d ask, but they’re probably getting _mushy_ in there.”

Baze grins. “Yeah, probably. You want me to kick ’em out?”

“No, don’t. I like… having everyone here.” She stifles a yawn behind her fist. “I think I’m gonna put on a movie or something. You should…” she flaps an errant hand, “go check on your boyfriend.”

“I’m too old to have a boyfriend.”

“Shut up, Baze, you’re not old.” She grins at him, cheeky, and ducks away when he tries to tweak her nose. “Ugh, stop! You’re such a dad!”

“Yeah, well. Whose fault is that?” But his voice holds no censure, and when he bends to kiss the top of her head she doesn’t pull away. “Fine, I’ll go check on my _boyfriend_. You keep the boys out of trouble.”

“I’ll try,” she says dubiously. Baze shakes his head and gets off the couch.

Chirrut is in bed when he enters the bedroom on light feet. He tries to close the door without making a sound, but Echo perks up where she lies sprawled across Chirrut’s feet— _on_ the bed, wonderful—and her master lifts his head from the pillow. “Baze?”

“Yeah. I’m here.” He takes Chirrut’s hand when he reaches out for him and leans his hip against the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Mmh. All right.” His tone is dismissive, which concerns Baze more than his earlier dramatics.

“You’ve got a bit before your next dose, you should try and sleep. Or I can get you something for the pain.” He rubs his thumb against the back of his hand, and Chirrut smiles.

“I’ll be all right.”

“You sure?”

Chirrut pretends to consider this. “I’d be better with a cup of tea and a bit of a cuddle.”

Baze snorts. “Right. Well, there’s some tea left, but it’s gone cold, I’m afraid.”

“It’ll do.”

He transfers the half-full mug of tea from the bedside stand to Chirrut’s waiting hands and moves away from the bed. Chirrut’s ear follows him. “Where are you going?”

“Changing. Unless you want to cuddle with someone wearing jeans and a belt?”

A delighted smile spreads across Chirrut’s face, and it only grows wider as Baze’s belt buckle clanks and his shoes hit the floor. “Oh, Baze. I didn’t think you would actually do it.”

“Why not?” He finds sweatpants and a clean tee shirt and puts them on, well aware that Chirrut is paying close attention. Even if he can’t see him, his focus is still a tangible thing, prickling the hairs on the back of his neck and thudding his heartbeat a little harder against his sternum.

“Well… I don’t know. You’re a very private person.” He doesn’t sound upset about it, just a little unsure. Then Baze flips back the covers and climbs into bed, and he hurries to finish his tea and set it aside. “I didn’t want to rush you.”

“Consider me unrushed, then. Here.” He settles on his side facing him, one arm under the pillow beneath his head and the other stroking down the line of Chirrut’s bare arm to his hand. He lets their fingers lace together and rests a kiss against the side of his head. “Do as you like with me—within reason. As long as you’re comfortable.”

Chirrut cranes his head towards him and then stops, wincing. “Ow. Can you… come closer. Yes, just like… mm.”

A kiss quiets him, and Baze rubs his flat belly under the duvet, soft and undemanding. “Go to sleep, Chirrut.”

“Well there’s no way I’m sleeping _now_ ,” Chirrut grouses, but he settles down, head relaxed against the pillow and his eyelids at half mast. His good hand finds Baze’s beneath the covers and keeps it there, held soft against his navel. The skin is smoother than Baze had imagined, squishier, all his steely strength buried under layers of fatigue. “You can kick Echo off the bed if you want, by the way. She just hopped up here and I didn’t have the heart to make her leave.”

“Does she sleep with you at your place?”

“Not normally. Only when I’m having a bad night.” He blinks slowly, lips soft and pink—pinker when Baze drops another kiss there, unable to resist. “I… think I might fall asleep after all,” he murmurs, and yawns in his face, wide enough that Baze can see the back of his throat.

“Good. Sleep.” He pets his ribs so gently, so gently. “I’ll wake you when it’s time for your medication.”

Chirrut hums. His eyes are nearly shut. His lashes are so dark, Baze thinks. Then he shuts his eyes, too, and doesn’t open them again for a little while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter comes with an amazing [manip](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/158615007815/kerriss-spirit-assassin-manip-17-inspired-by) of baze coming to pick up chirrut at the hospital!! thank you kerriss!!!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baze exercises his bedside manner. Chirrut flirts outrageously. Jyn gets the fuck out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for grumpy old men getting it on in this chapter! If sex isn't your thing, you can just tap out when they head to the bedroom. :)

Baze is standing in the kitchen while the coffee brews, staring sightlessly out at the predawn sky, when he hears the click of Echo’s claws on the floor. He turns around and sighs. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

Chirrut is leaning against the wall that divides the kitchen and the living room, rumpled from sleep and holding his bad arm gingerly against his bare chest. At least he’s wearing a shirt—one of Baze’s soft, well-worn flannels—even if it isn’t buttoned. He smiles at Baze’s soft rebuke and shakes his head. “Echo needs to be let out. And I’m fine. I just took my next dose. The bed got cold without you,” he adds, pouting exaggeratedly. Whether he could feel Baze approaching or not, his last words are timed perfectly as Baze slips an arm around his waist and rests their foreheads together.

“I’ll take her. Does she need a walk?”

“Mm. No. Just tell her to hit the grass and she’ll go.”

“Well-trained,” Baze says, eyebrows lifting. Chirrut laughs softly.

“Naturally.” He pats Baze on the chest, since that’s the closest part of him within reach, and then his hand lingers, laying flat over one pectoral. The heat of his hand bleeds swiftly through his thin t-shirt, and Baze shivers. “Don’t mind me, I’m just going to snoop around your kitchen and figure out where everything is.”

“Snoop away. I just put the water on, so there’ll be tea in a minute.” He takes Chirrut’s hand and kisses the back of it before reluctant releasing him. “C’mon Echo, let’s go.”

For a moment the dog stays put, looking between the two of them with her shoulder pressed firmly to Chirrut’s leg. Then her nose twitches and she huffs as if to say, _If I must_ , and she peels away to follow Baze.

The path to the front door is fraught with hazards—namely two young men sleeping heavily on Baze’s couch and futon, respectively—but he navigates the minefield without casualties and steps outside into the cool morning. Against his face, the air is damp and smells of dying leaves. There’s a pő tree behind his house that’s been stubbornly clinging to its fragile lace-green cloak, but today its branches reach up naked to the pale grey sky, the points of its limbs spiny and defensive. Baze descends the stairs to the ground level and kicks his way through the leaves, already turned a sickly golden brown in the chill, and Echo follows close on his heels.

“Hit the grass,” he tells her, feeling foolish. She stares at him a moment, accusatory. He is not her master. But then, to his surprise, she turns around a few times and does her business before racing back up the stairs to the back door, paws braced on the ancient welcome mat and tail wagging faintly side to side. “Huh.” He puts his hands in his pockets and stumps back inside.

The boys are still asleep, and when he checks in on Jyn, she’s sitting at her desk wrapped in her duvet scanning Ebay for machinery parts, so he leaves her be and goes to the kitchen. And stops. Chirrut is bent over the counter with the contents of Baze’s tea cupboard spread out everywhere like one of Jyn’s projects, opening each jar and bag to smell the contents. He’s very organized about it, and his hands move quickly, remembering exactly where he put the last container and where the next one sits. Then he pops open a tin of matcha and gets a faceful of green dust, and he just barely manages to catch his sneeze in the crook of his elbow.

“ _Ow_ ,” he mutters afterward, and Baze realizes he jarred his injury.

“Here,” he says, advancing into the kitchen to take the tin from his hands. “You all right?”

“Ugh. Fine.” He pokes the bandaging gingerly, mouth creased with pain. “I hate this,” he confesses quietly. “All my senses feel dulled, and I don’t know whether it’s the medication or the injury. I just…” He trails off, dropping his hand as Echo comes to stand against his hip. “Oh. Hello there, sweetness. Was she good for you?”

“Good as gold. Want me to make you tea?” He doesn’t know how else to comfort him, but Chirrut doesn’t take offense at the brusqueness of his offer.

“Yes, please. I’ll take the matcha—but only if you have a whisk.”

Baze rolls his eyes. “Purist.”

“Do you doubt it?”

“Not at all.” He drops a kiss to Chirrut’s good shoulder. “Sit. You’ll aggravate your shoulder.”

Baze expects some kind of protest, a taunt about his _mothering_ , but Chirrut is quiet as he putters around the kitchen, pouring out the boiling water and digging up his old wooden whisk from the drawer of miscellaneous things. It’s been awhile since he’s done it this way, if he’s honest. His grandmother taught him the proper way when he was a boy, but lately, on the rare occasions that he drinks tea instead of coffee, he uses an electric immersion blender and adds honey to satisfy Jyn’s sweet tooth.

But the motions come back to him, and he appreciates the burn in his wrist as he sets two cups of green, frothy tea on the kitchen table. He sits kitty-corner to Chirrut and watches as he finds the rim of the cup with his fingers, tracing the lip and the thin-glazed belly to feel the heat.

“No handle,” Chirrut murmurs with a satisfied smile. “Traditional.”

“They’re my mother’s. I don’t use them often.” He handles his own cup awkwardly, more used to the tight fit of a mass-produced handle around his knuckles. “But I thought, um. That you would appreciate them.”

Chirrut takes a sip and lets out a long sigh. “And here I’ve been wasting all this time and money at Yavin IV on their overpriced matcha when I could have been getting it right here.”

“The ratio isn’t hard,” Baze mumbles, embarrassed. “I can show you.”

“Or I could just visit you every morning before work and force you to make it.” Chirrut grins toothily, enthralled by his own genius, and Baze feels so full, unable to decide between clocking him for his foolishness or kissing him. Chirrut’s smile falters when the silence stretches, and he tips his face toward his tea. “Forgive me, my friend, I didn’t mean to—”

Baze’s hand on his wrist cuts him off like a knife slicing through bread. “Chirrut.” He leans forward until his chair creaks, and he’s sure that Chirrut can feel his breath on his cheek. “You don’t have to keep apologizing just because I’m too slow to make witty comebacks.”

Chirrut’s nose wrinkles with displeasure. “You’re not slow, my dear. I’m afraid I suffer from a debilitating case of perpetual sarcasm, that’s all.” Baze rubs a gentle thumb against the hollow of his wrist and he falls silent again, nostrils flaring ever so slightly. He turns his head and smiles when their noses brush. “Softie,” he whispers. “I remember, you know. What you called me when you came to pick me up from the hospital.”

“Mph? You’ll have to remind me.”

“ _Dear one_.” Chirrut’s face turns rosy, and his lashes are like dark smudges of charcoal hiding the pale color of his eyes. “You are dear to me, too, you know.”

Baze sighs and leans their foreheads together. “I know.”

Chirrut finds the corner of his mouth with his thumb and kisses him. The quiet morning intimacy of it thrills him, settles in his bones as he drops a hand to Chirrut’s knee and leans harder into the table. The corner jabs him in the stomach, but it’s a small concern compared to the enormity of Chirrut’s hand on his beard, his jaw, tracing a line to where his ears are exposed by the messy knot of his hair. He tries to draw away, briefly, but Chirrut makes a disapproving noise in his throat and so he comes back, nuzzling his mouth, burrowing into the welcome heat of him like a small creature ready for winter’s bite.

But something does stir him, finally. He pulls away reluctantly from the taste of matcha and Chirrut to see Jyn standing in the doorway, wide-eyed, tucking her phone hurriedly into her pocket. When Baze glares, she coughs and says, “Er, sorry to interrupt—the boys and I are going to get breakfast downstairs and then head to the shop, since Bodhi has a consult today. Just… letting you know.”

“Thanks,” Baze says gruffly. “Do I…” He stops, feeling foolish for not knowing his own schedule, but Jyn is already shaking her head.

“You had one client, but the cancelled after the… after yesterday. The whole city’s pretty quiet.” She pats the lump at her hip where her phone sits in the pocket of her jeans. “I’ll keep this on if you need me.”

Baze nods, and she takes off—he can hear her rounding up Cassian and Bodhi, chivvying them to the door, and snorts.

“What’s so funny?” Chirrut wants to know.

“Jyn. Clearing out the house to give us privacy.” He shakes his head, but stays put to let Chirrut lean in and kiss him again, soft and slick with a little bit of tongue.

“Shall we make the most of it, then?”

Baze makes an incredulous sound deep in his chest. “Seriously? You’re injured, Chirrut. You need to be resting.”

“Endorphins are excellent natural painkillers,” Chirrut says matter-of-factly, then grins, tracing a path up Baze’s thigh with his good hand. Heat blooms on the back of his neck, but Baze catches his hand in his, preventing him from a real grope, and clears his throat.

“What about—breakfast? You haven’t eaten anything yet, you should…”

Chirrut’s devilish smile softens. “My dear, if you’d rather not, you only have to say.”

“That’s not it.” Baze sighs and tries to think around the fog of confused desire clouding his mind. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Well I’m not suggesting _calisthenics_.” Chirrut’s mouth twitches at the corners, irrepressible, and Baze has to lean in and kiss those soft, mischievous edges. “There are other… mm… _quieter_ things we can do.”

Baze sighs. “Come on then, since you’re so determined.” Another kiss, to soften the gruffness of his words, and he slips an arm around Chirrut’s waist to keep him steady as he stands. He feels ridiculous and ten years younger as he guides them to the bedroom, but Chirrut’s wandering hands and ragged breath make him feel better about the state of his boxer briefs. “Easy,” he murmurs, catching his hands and holding them gently to his lips. “Lay down on the bed, let me do all the work.”

Chirrut waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “How selfless of you. I should get hurt more often.”

Baze huffs. “Don’t even think about it. _Shig’at_.” The words come out of him syrupy-sweet, for all his best efforts, and when Chirrut laughs at him he just pulls off his shirt and crawls into bed.

“Oooh. Yes, this is much better.” Chirrut reaches for him with his right arm, skidding his palm down Baze’s chest. “Stop that,” he murmurs when Baze tries to suck in his stomach. “Just let me.”

 _Let you what?_ Baze wants to ask, but he holds his tongue, folding himself around Chirrut’s body like a comma on top of the disordered covers. He watches him, instead—his brow is furrowed with concentration as he map the hills and valleys of Baze’s torso with his hands, feeling out his surface tension. Baze lowers his head to kiss his brow, and Chirrut tucks a finger into the waistband of his sweats.

“You missed,” he chides. He tilts his head up, and Baze kisses the smirk off his face. “You can touch me too, you know.”

Baze has been holding back, but with his explicit permission he scoops a hand under his back and holds him still for the exploration of his mouth. He trails his whiskers over Chirrut’s throat and bites down, gently. Chirrut inhales raggedly and sinks his fingers into Baze’s hair.

“Yes. That.” His grip tightens and releases, fumbles for the elastic holding Baze’s hair back. “You’re very quiet, love. Is everything okay?”

Baze kisses the swell of his pectoral, nudging the placket of his borrowed shirt aside with his nose, and lifts his head. “My mouth is a bit otherwise occupied. But I can take a break if you’d rather hear my awkward attempts at dirty talk.”

“Ha! No, that’s not what I meant.” His brief struggle with the hair tie is rewarded when the elastic slips free and Baze’s hair falls around his face in tangled disarray. He hums and brushes it back, thumb tracing the shell of Baze’s ear. Not one of his best traits, but Chirrut seems fascinated by their size and shape, so he’s content to let him explore. “I can hardly even hear you breathing. I don’t really have much else to go on, you know.”

 _Oh_. “Right. I, um. I’ll try to be louder?”

Chirrut smiles. “No one else is home. Feel free to make a racket.”

Something tight and careful inside Baze breaks loose at this, and he lets himself exhale, inhale, exhale again in a ragged rhythm. He grips Chirrut’s hip and bends down. There is no rush, he reminds himself—the dog is snoozing at the foot of the bed, and the kids won’t be back for hours. He kisses the center of Chirrut’s chest and hums. “We’re getting you in the bath after this.”

Chirrut’s belly shakes with laughter. “Why? Do I smell?”

“Like a hospital.” Kiss. “Just a little.” He wriggles down the bed a little ways and tugs on the bow he’d tied so painstakingly the day before. In spite of his efforts, the borrowed sleep pants have slid down a little, exposing the elastic of Chirrut’s briefs. Baze kisses his navel and then rubs his nose there, too, breathing him in where he’s warm and smells of sweat and clean sheets. There is a very faint trail of hair, just here, disappearing into his underwear, and he strokes the downy line with the tip of his finger. “So soft.”

“Hardly!” Chirrut wriggles under his touch, breathing hard. His face is flushed, and his neck, and his hands are fisted in the bedding. “You’re a tease,” he rasps, accusatory.

“No calisthenics,” Baze reminds him. He leans his forehead against Chirrut’s lower belly and exhales long and slow. Chirrut whines, high in the back of his throat, as his warm breath wafts over him, over the tent he’s making in his borrowed pants.

“ _Baze_.” He gives a little hiccup as Baze slides the fabric down a little more, dragging his underwear along with. “Baze, please, I’m going to pull something and then what will be the point—oh. _Oh_ …”

“Better?” Baze asks innocently. He works the elastic down his hips and thighs, then off, dumping the whole tangled mess of garments off the side of the bed. He struggles with himself a moment, instinctively biting back a groan, and then lets it go, sliding one open palm up the golden stretch of Chirrut’s thigh. “Gods, Chirrut.”

Chirrut smiles breathlessly at nothing. “Like what you see?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I really do.”

He hadn’t looked yesterday, not really—Chirrut had been pretty out of it, and Baze had averted his eyes as much as possible while helping him change. His bare chest was a slightly different kettle of fish, but the whole package taken together… Baze swallows. Squeezes Chirrut’s thigh, and makes a low, desperate noise when Chirrut readily parts his legs a little more. He’s the same beautiful golden color all over, warm and inviting, his body toned and firm beneath the slight softness that comes with age. And he marks beautifully. Baze can follow the path of his earlier meandering by the red smudges he’d left with his mouth, the scrape of his beard.

“Baze,” Chirrut whispers. “I want to see you, too.”

“I’m not nearly as nice to look at as you,” he warns, though he’s already kneeling up to work his sweatpants off his thighs. Chirrut snorts.

“What do I care? I didn’t say I wanted to _look_ at you. I want to _see_ you.” He reaches out and Baze leans in, bracing himself over him and a little to the side to give him an easy reach. “And believe me, regardless of what you _look_ like, the way you _feel_ …” He trails off, fingers stuttering on the strength of Baze’s thighs, the hair sprinkled liberally on his chest and stomach. “Force preserve me, Baze, but I’ve never wanted someone so much in my life.”

Baze makes no reply—not because he doesn’t believe him, but it’s easy to say such things in the heat of the moment. He doesn’t take it personally. A man like Chirrut, blind or no, must have had a hundred admirers in his day, while Baze has always been content to be his own companion. But Chirrut, he thinks, is well worth giving up his comfortable solitude for.

Then Chirrut’s wandering hand finds his dick, and all coherent thought flies out the window. “ _Oh_ ,” he says again, this time with a wicked grin that Baze is quickly becoming familiar with. “Baze, you devil. How have you been hiding this from me, all this time?”

“Pretty easily,” he quips, and then bites his lower lip hard enough that the sting quells some of his embarrassingly rampant desire. It wouldn’t do to come off early, even if Chirrut’s clever fingers know exactly how to grip and tug, how to massage the head until it feels like Baze’s guts are being folded down and compacted into nothing. “There’s this thing called trousers, perhaps you’ve heard of them?”

Chirrut snorts. “Stop being smart and kiss me.”

Baze leans down, as requested, guided by the demanding grip on the back of his neck. Chirrut’s mouth under his is hot and demanding and full of teeth—he licks into Baze’s mouth and sucks on his tongue, and Baze groans, so caught up in the taste of him that he doesn’t even miss the hand on his cock.

“You’re perfect,” he mumbles against his lips, and then he has to kiss him again, kiss the smile that Chirrut can’t seem to go five minutes without wearing. “Chirrut…”

He feels full again, like he had half an hour ago sitting at the kitchen table. So full he’s clumsy with it, smearing damp kisses to Chirrut’s jaw, his throat, the swoop of his collarbones. He remembers the first time he saw them at the martial arts club, bared by the loose collar of his shirt, and he scrapes his teeth against them, something deep inside him crowing with delight at the marks he leaves behind. And then down, desperate, hungry, lapping at his sternum and the dip of his navel until he can take Chirrut’s cock into his mouth.

Chirrut wails. Digs his toes into the mattress, presses his knees as far apart as he can, and _sobs_. For a split second Baze fears he’s hurt him, but then there’s a demanding fist in his hair and a garbled mess of encouragement, so he keeps going. Clumsy, unpracticed, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Chirrut’s flat belly heaves for breath and his feet slide up, rubbing against Baze’s flank and calf as he holds one muscular thigh in his hand and steadies the base of Chirrut’s dick with the other. He tastes… salty, he supposes, and a little bit unwashed, but not in a bad way. He likes being able to taste him, his musk and bitterness, the evidence of unchecked desire.

“Fuck,” Chirrut says, enunciating very precisely into the otherwise quiet room. Baze tongues beneath his foreskin and smiles around the head. He’s never heard Chirrut swear before. It’s more of a turn-on than it should be. “Baze… _oh_ …”

Baze pulls off, as sloppy and wet as he can, and the sound makes Chirrut’s cock twitch in his hand. “Yeah? That’s what gets you off your high horse, huh? A little cocksucking?”

“So vulgar,” Chirrut gasps, red-faced. If it’s meant to be a scold, it’s a poor one, with his cock leaking against Baze’s palm and he knees spread wider than NaJedha’s cold horizon. “Baze, fuck, your fucking _mouth_ —”

“So which is it?” He licks him, ducks to nibble at the firmness of his hipbone. “You want me to make noise, or you want me to blow you?”

“Hahhhh…” He pants for air and releases Baze’s hair to fondle his cheek, to stroke his lips where they’re swollen and wet. “Blow me.”

Baze shudders and sucks his fingers into his mouth. “Keep your hand there,” he murmurs when he pulls back, and Chirrut gasps and nods, knuckles curled damply against his cheek. “I want you to feel this. I want you to _see_ it.”

“Ngh.” Chirrut sounds as if he’s swallowed his own tongue when Baze gulps him down, followed this time by the close, curious touch of his hand. He fondles the stretch of his lips around his cock, probes his cheek when Baze lets the head slide around his mouth like a lollypop. His thighs are tense and trembling as Baze takes him deeper. One finger slides in alongside his dick, and Baze sucks on that, too, curling his tongue around his mouthful.

Chirrut gasps suddenly, a little tighter than before, a little higher-pitched. He snatches his hand away and grabs at Baze’s hair again instead, hips working as he flings his head back on the pillow and mutters rapidly under his breath. Baze pulls off, panting. “What’s that, lovely? Let me hear you.”

“Fuck,” Chirrut mumbles, louder this time. That seems to break the dam—the word spills out of him in a flood, blurring together, and then his breath hitches and the hot red flush of arousal blooms all down his chest to his navel. “Baze—Baze, oh, fuck, _fuck_ …”

Baze pulls back just in time to feel the hot, stinging splash against his much-abused mouth as Chirrut comes. He licks his lips as Chirrut’s hand falls to his face, and smiles. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, while Chirrut’s fingers trace the soiled edges of his mouth. “You’re beautiful, Chirrut.”

Chirrut _laughs_ , breathy and wild, his hand sliding out of Baze’s hair with a soft _thump_ when it lands against the mattress. “Baze… _qīn’ài de..._ ”

 _Dear_ _one_. Or as close a translation that exists. Baze wipes his face with the back of his hand and leans down, placing a tender kiss to the soft, vulnerable skin of Chirrut’s inner thigh. “Chirrut, I want… can I…”

“Yes. Whatever you need, the answer is yes.”

Baze brings himself off in a few long, sweet minutes, kneeling over Chirrut with one hand braced against the pillow and the other between his legs, Chirrut’s fingers tracing his body like it’s a work of art. He lets himself be noisy for the first time in a very long time—he gasps and grunts, whispers curses when he draws close. But when he comes, soiling Chirrut’s perfect golden belly, the only word on his lips is Chirrut’s name.

Chirrut pulls him down against him, afterward, in spite of Baze’s protests. “Endorphins,” he whispers, smirking, and he giggles when Baze pokes him in the ribs. Baze’s limbs feel like rubber, or he would protest—as it is, he barely has the strength to wipe Chirrut clean with a corner of the sheet, and after that’s done he folds him in his arms as gently as he can and rests their foreheads together on the pillow.

“Is it too soon to say I love you?” Chirrut murmurs quietly in the aftermath. The room is very still, the bedding pushed down around their feet, but Baze is warm and content, fizzing slightly with hormones, and he can see no reason to deny him.

“If you feel something in your heart, why keep it to yourself?” Baze nudges their noses together. “I know my own mind. I’m not afraid, _tiánxīn_.”

Chirrut smiles and shuts his eyes. “Neither am I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few quick things: first of all, disclaimer, I do not speak Mandarin. That said, here are some translations. 
> 
> _tu bha'at_ is a made-up term that translates to "Stubborn old fool" in Old Jedhan. Baze has used it before, and probably will again.  
>  _shig’at_ is also made-up, but is a mashed-up form of _tu bha'at_ and 傻瓜 (shǎguā), which is Mandarin for "fool" and according to google is a term of endearment???  
>  _qīn’ài de_ is actually real Mandarin (according to google, anyway), and means darling or dear. Similarly, _tiánxīn_ means sweetheart. 
> 
> If anything is glaringly wrong, feel free to poke me and I'll fix it!
> 
> Also, Baze definitely has a cat that I keep forgetting about. Someday I'll remember to make a passing reference to her presence. For now, let's say that Echo has her in hiding. :P


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mon Mothma gives a speech. Baze puts his foot in his mouth. Chirrut sheds a tear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your comments!! It really makes this even more of a joy to write :)

“I have a favor to ask.”

Baze studies the bare stretch of Chirrut’s back, calculating his next cut. “Is now really the best time?” When Chirrut only huffs at him, he sets down his knife. “You know the answer is going to be yes either way.”

“Don’t speak too soon.” Slowly, Chirrut straightens up, and Baze whips out a blotting cloth. “I received a letter in the mail yesterday from the Council.”

Baze goes cold all over. Personal mail from the government is rarely good. “What do they want?”

“A hearing. To make reparations for the injury I suffered during the riot.” He lifts a hand to his left shoulder, where the bullet-wound has healed over pink and angry. The stitches came out yesterday, and there’s still a little bit of dried blood left from their precise pinhole-sized scars, but he can move his arm without much trouble and Baze has finally stopped worrying about infection.

“Reparations? But you didn’t even press charges.”

Chirrut shrugs gingerly. “It’s probably a show of goodwill. I doubt they expected one accidental shot to become so widespread.”

He’s referring to the aftermath of what’s becoming known as the Temple Riots. They had spent a few quiet days in after Baze brought him home from the hospital, and they’d missed the worst of the backlash. But Jyn and her friends had spent their days scouring the city, watching as the news unfolded: first Saw’s arrest, now being shouted from all corners by big media instead of whispered in half-forgotten press releases, and now this—a peaceful protestor, a blind man, shot by a rogue police officer wearing Order colors. Jedha, so long sedentary and complacent, was _angry_.

The first time Baze took Chirrut back to his apartment, he’d spent half an hour clearing away gift baskets and flowers from his veranda, and taking down the get well cards and letters of encouragement from his door before he even let Chirrut come inside. The place was undisturbed here, at least, but Chirrut was uncomfortable with the thought of complete strangers coming to his door, even with gestures of goodwill, so after a shower and a change of clothes, he packed a bag and returned to Baze’s house for a few more days. At least his front door was harder to find.

“If they think a hearing and a pat on the back will calm the city down, they’ve got another thing coming,” Baze mutters. He disinfects his next tool but doesn’t use it yet—instead he grabs his desk chair and pulls it over, sitting next to Chirrut instead of standing over him. “Are you going to go?”

“I kind of have to,” Chirrut laughs. “Even if I didn’t, my curiosity is piqued enough to tempt me there. Either way, I was hoping you would come with me.”

“Of course,” Baze says immediately. Then, “Why me?”

“I need to bring a witness along, they said. Something about paperwork and notaries, I don’t know. I glossed over that part.” He twiddles his fingers in a _oh well_ sort of gesture. “But aside from that, do I need a reason? I’m not sure what to expect from this hearing, and it would be a great comfort if you were there.” He reaches out for Baze, for the hand he seems to know is already reaching back. “I can ask Cassian to come if it’s too much trouble.”

“I’ll come,” Baze says firmly. “Just tell me when and where.”

///

 _When_ is next Tuesday, and _where_ is the Grand Consulate, an intimidating building whose rear facade looms over the cobbled streets of Old Jedha. Baze shows Chirrut’s pass to the gate guard and is able to park in the guest lot, very near to the entrance; even so, he takes Chirrut’s arm for the walk inside, disregarding the new cane Chirrut wields. A gift from Baze, since the old one—though found and returned to him—was broken.

“Consider me a stand-in for Echo,” he says when Chirrut protests. Then, when that doesn’t work, “Please. For my sake, not for yours.”

Chirrut grumbles, but he assents, so they climb the broad stairs together, arm in arm. Baze is even wearing a suit for the occasion. It’s been awhile since he last wore it, and it pinches a little in the chest and shoulder, but Jyn assured him before they left that he looked _totally dashing_. At his side, Chirrut is wearing a new black robe from the University, sash and all; but instead of jeans and a t-shirt underneath, he’s wearing loose red trousers in the traditional Upper Jedhan style, a matching red tunic, and black slippers that Baze hasn’t seen anyone wear unironically since his grandfather passed. It must look odd, the two of them together, but Baze can’t be bothered to give a shit.

Inside is cool and quiet, without a stray speck of sand anywhere to be seen. Baze deliberately doesn’t wipe his shoes.

“Baze,” Chirrut whispers, a soft reproof, but he’s biting back a smile.

“What? It’s just a calling card.”

Chirrut harrumphs too loudly, and it echoes through the vestibule as some buttoned-up young intern bustles toward them. “You promised to be on your best behavior,” he says out of the side of his mouth, but Baze doesn’t have a chance to reply, because then they’re filling out paperwork, Baze by hand and Chirrut with the help of a touchscreen computer. When that’s done, the intern leads them through the vestibule and down a long, broad hallway that gleams with newness. Chirrut soon tucks his cane under his right arm, because it’s obvious that there are no obstacles here, not even the slight shift of a marble tile underfoot.

Then they are put in a small antechamber, dark with old wood and green marble of a sort that Baze has never seen in Jedha before. _Coruscant_ _imports_ , he thinks derisively, settling his behind on the uncomfortable bench.

“How long will they make us wait, do you think?” he mutters, ignoring the doorman posted between them and the door to the council chamber.

“Not long.” Chirrut’s voice is almost a sing-song, and he pats Baze’s hand consolingly. He doesn’t appear to be under any kind of strain at all—he could be sitting having tea on his veranda at sunset for all the discomfort he exudes. “Not long.”

Five minutes tick by, unutterably slow, but at last the doorman moves, responding to some unheard signal, and gestures for them to follow. Baze grips Chirrut’s arm again. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

Baze has seen the Grand Council Chamber before, but only on television and in the paper. The in-person effect is, as no doubt intended, awe-inspiring, but he purposefully keeps his eyes forward and ignores the towering ceiling, the arched bell-shape of the domed rotunda, the lancet windows spilling in weak autumn light from high overhead. All his focus is on the Council.

They sit, all thirteen of them, in a tight semicircle behind a curved table whose elaborate oak facade depicts scenes of daily life in Jedha around the turn of the century. Six on each side, and First Councilwoman Mon Mothma at the center. She sits just a little higher than the rest, and is dressed in a First Counselor’s white robes, hung with a red-and-ochre sash about her shoulders. The mural that frames her head is a rather fantastical depiction of the raising of the Consulate, the newest building in this part of the city, meant to overthrow the grim steel-and-glass aesthetics of old Imperial rule; but the painting is thrown into shadow, and all he can really make out is the rendition of First Councilman Skywalker standing in triumphant repose over the fallen body of an Imperial trooper. Baze snorts under his breath and Chirrut squeeze his arm.

“Doctor Chirrut Îmwe of Jedha University,” drones the doorman, reading from the paperwork they’d filled out in the lobby. “And Captain Baze Malbus of South Jedha, lately of the Jedhan Police Force.”

Baze twitches a little—he hasn’t heard that title in years—but Chirrut smiles and turns his head toward him just slightly to whisper, “ _Captain_ , hmm? You never told me that part.”

Baze just shakes his head. Of course Chirrut would flirt with him while the entire bloody Council sat watching them, even if they couldn’t hear what he’d said.

Mon Mothma rises, and everyone follows suit—Chirrut releases Baze’s arm and bows, then stands erect a little ways apart, his cane held casually in front of him like a prop instead of an aid. Baze just folds his hands behind his back and stands at attention, accepting the role of bodyguard easily.

“You honor me,” Chirrut says carefully in Old Jedhan, then continues in NiJedhan Basic. “I thank you for your invitation.”

“It is we who are honored by your presence, Doctor Îmwe.” Mon Mothma gestures, and the Council retakes their seats in a cacophony of rustling robes and scraping chairs. “Thank you for coming. I hope your injury is healing well.”

“It is, I thank you,” Chirrut replies. He doesn’t sound at all perplexed by the pleasantries—Baze envies him his poise. All Baze can manage right now is stoic nothingness. Then again, Chirrut _has_ done this before, many times. He recalls the frustration in Chirrut’s voice when he told him about his many pleas to the Council for sanction to dig up the ruins of the old temple, and his respect for him doubles. Baze doesn’t think he could show half as much restraint if it were him.

Mon Mothma inclines her head. “We will try not to take up much more of your time. Let me be blunt. The harm you suffered at the hands of a Jedhan police officer was inexcusable. In light of this, we, the Council, are prepared to extend to you a gesture of good faith, in order to make our reparations.”

Chirrut bows again. “First Councilwoman Mothma, there is no need for this. Accidents happen, and I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Nevertheless.” She seems to be hiding a smile, but her face is so unmoving that Baze can’t be sure. “The officer who fired the shot has been relieved of duty. And for you, Doctor Îmwe, a gift. On behalf of the Jedha City Council, I extend to you the rights and permissions of Head Researcher on the Council’s latest endeavor: the Temple of the Whills.”

Chirrut’s back goes rigid, and even Baze can hear the electric charge in his voice as he says, carefully, “I’m afraid I don’t understand. You are… rebuilding the temple?”

Mon Mothma waves a hand, and one of the court attendants approaches Chirrut with a large sheaf of papers bound together in a file. “We cannot rebuild what we have not discovered, Professor. This file contains the approved documents of a grant to begin excavating the Temple of the Whills, to be overseen by lead archeologist Director Krennic. It would be our great honor if you would agree to partner with him in this endeavor.”

Baze watches Chirrut flip open the file and run his fingers along the page. From this angle he can just make out the tiny words printed in neat, gaping rows, making room in between each line for the translation in Braille. Against his will, his heart beats a little faster at the excitement he feels brewing in Chirrut.

“I—I am speechless, First Councilwoman,” Chirrut stammers. His cane forgotten in the clutch of his elbow, he hugs the file to his chest and seems to waver on his feet. “This is a great honor, one I am _most_ happy to accept.”

Mon Mothma _does_ smile, then, without reserve, and Baze feels himself soften a little toward the Council as a whole. He’s known Chirrut for three whole months and has never heard his voice so fraught with unspoken joy before. Tentative, in case it’s unwelcome, he reaches out to brush Chirrut’s elbow. Chirrut leans into him immediately, turning and shoving the file at him. “Baze. Tell me, tell me what it says. I read it, but I need you to tell me I’m not dreaming.”

Baze glances at the assembled Council, but they don’t seem to be perturbed by Chirrut’s lack of dignity. Carefully, he takes the file, its contents at least three inches thick and heavier than it appears, and flips to the first page. “Grant Proposal for the Projected Timeline of the Excavation of the Temple of the Whills,” he reads aloud, glancing past the long list of names and titles that went into the writing of it. “It’s for real, Chirrut. It’s certainly bloody heavy enough.”

Chirrut grins, teeth white and gleaming, and clutches Baze’s arm. “Will you help me sign?”

There’s a lot more paperwork involved than Baze had expected, but he signs off on all of it as Chirrut’s witness, waiting while Chirrut reads the terms of the grant in Braille and then obediently re-reading the words for himself to be doubly sure. It’s not that he doesn’t trust the Council, it’s just that… well, he doesn’t really trust the Council. Then they’re introduced to Director Krennic. Baze smells the First Order on him, but he’s forthright and earnest enough when Chirrut grills him for details on the project, and he can’t begrudge the man his allegiances—the Order certainly pays better than the University, as evidenced by the Council’s budget for the project.

And then it’s over. In a few short hours, Chirrut’s entire life has been turned upside down, and Baze can feel the ground beneath his feet shifting in tandem.

“I’ll have to apply for a sabbatical as soon as possible,” Chirrut says as they leave the Consulate and walk arm in arm to Baze’s car. “In fact, can we stop there now? Another semester of teaching will give Director Krennic time to get things organized, and by then I should be able to take a leave of absence and—oh, Baze, this is _incredible_. When I got the letter I could never have expected—I never could have—”

He stops, voice and feet alike, and Baze stops too, watching as Chirrut tips his face to the sky and blinks rapidly. “ _Tiánxīn_ ,” he murmurs. “Don’t cry. This is a happy thing.”

“Yes I _know_ , you idiot, that’s why I’m…” He huffs a great sigh and then laughs, sounding choked as his eyes spill over, two perfect, crystalline tears slipping down his cheeks. “The Force was truly with me that day in the square, Baze. Without that bullet…”

“Don’t say it, Chirrut,” Baze warns, but Chirrut shakes his head, smiling through the tears.

“I won’t. I’m sorry. I won’t say it, for your sake. But Baze…” He clutches his copy of the grant to his chest and throws his other arm, his good arm, around Baze’s shoulders, pressing their foreheads together and his cane to Baze’s back. “I can’t tell you how I’ve longed for this day.”

Baze grunts and wraps him up tight, fists knotting in his sombre academic robes. “Just wait ’til they start digging.”

Chirrut shuts his eyes and smiles.

///

The news of Chirrut’s “sabbatical” spreads quickly. And, as the Council had no doubt hoped, it does its job. Baze hears fewer and fewer reports of anti-government sentiment, and the graffiti that had begun cropping up around the city isn’t quickly replaced when workers wash it away.

Chirrut is on top of the world. He throws himself into grading with single-minded focus, wrapping up the end of the semester far ahead of the rest of his department, and when his application for sabbatical goes through, he spends all his free time plotting his last semester’s coursework so that he can give the occasional lecture and leave the rest to his TAs. The martial arts school is already self-sufficient for the most part, but he still arranges a substitute for his children’s class and hires a manager to oversee the day-to-day running of the place for when he can no longer be there in person.

“You’ve thought of everything,” Baze tells him during his check-up a few weeks after the Council made its offer. He smooths a special cream onto Chirrut’s bare back to combat the risk of infection, and tries not to worry about the future. Chirrut has always made room for him in his life, even during his busiest time of year—that won’t change with this sabbatical.

“I like to be prepared,” Chirrut says. He stretches his arms over his head when Baze is done, and doesn’t even wince when his bullet scar wrinkles with the movement. The _zama-shiwo_ design tapers around it, encompassing it, making it a part of itself—Baze has done good work. Even he can admit that. “If this goes as well as I hope, I may not return to the University for some time.”

Baze’s hands slow as he screws the cap back on the ointment. “You’ll resign?”

“Oh, not entirely. I would hate to give up teaching for good. But this excavation is going to be several years in the doing.” He stands and shrugs into his shirt without help, doing the buttons swiftly. “Perhaps an adjunct position, taking up classes here and there when necessary…”

Baze frowns. “The University would be losing a remarkable asset.”

Chirrut’s hands grow still near his collar. “You don’t approve.”

“I didn’t say that. You’re a good teacher, is all. I’m sure the University would be sad to see you go.” He turns away, gathering his used tools for cleaning. Behind him, he hears Chirrut huff and shuffle his feet.

“I’ve been teaching at the University for almost twenty years, Baze. I love the work I do, but this… this is what I was meant for. What the Force has meant me for. Don’t you see?” There’s a faint rattle as he retrieves his cane from its corner, and Baze turns to watch him shrugging on his coat. The pit of his stomach drops a few inches, and he isn’t sure why. “I’ve been fighting for this for _years_. Is it really so surprising that I would want to pursue it with all my focus?”

“Chirrut, I’m not saying…” He stops. He isn’t really sure _what_ he’s saying, to be honest. “I just. Be careful. Please. The Council doesn’t give away gifts for free. There’s more to this than just _reparations_. And whatever happened to their precious bill? I haven’t heard a peep about University funding in weeks.”

Chirrut draws himself up. “They’ll make the right decision. Haven’t they just proven that they’re invested in uncovering and understanding Jedha’s history?” He reaches out, conciliatory, and lays a hand on Baze’s forearm. “You’re worrying me, my friend. I know that you have your own reasons to distrust the Council, but I believe they truly have the good of Jedha City at heart on this matter.”

“My own reasons?” Baze parrots. But he forces his hackles down and takes Chirrut’s hand, walking with him to the front desk. There’s a client waiting on the bench by the main window, but he ignores them for now, focusing on Chirrut’s puzzled face. “They aren’t _my_ reasons—they’re the same reasons any sane person would have in this situation. I know it’s bad form to look a gift bantha in the mouth, but Chirrut…” He lowers his voice. “Surely you must see they have more stake in this than just the obvious. The Council is not a fairy godmother to be granting wishes like this.”

Chirrut’s mouth hardens and he withdraws his hand from Baze’s grip. “And I am not a child, Baze. Thank you.” He gives a brusque nod and departs in a draft of cold air, the bell ringing jauntily behind him. Baze sighs and rubs his face, centering himself. It’s not the first disagreement he’s had with Chirrut, and he’s sure it won’t be the last.

“Welcome to InkJedha,” he says, waving the client over. “Mr. So, right? Come on back and let’s get to work.”

The rest of the afternoon passes swiftly, punctuated by the arrival of Jyn just as he’s seeing his last client out. She gives the man a wide berth and a nod, and when the door swings shut behind him she hops on the counter and says, without preamble, “You need to stop tattooing my professors, Baze, it’s starting to get a little weird.”

Baze grunts and ignores the counter-sitting, too busy frowning at his appointment book. _When did we get so busy? I don’t remember taking half these clients on…_ “Who?”

“Mr. So. That’s _Kay_ , Baze. Haven’t you met him before?”

“Hmm? Oh, Kay? No, he’s always… hmmm… suspiciously absent from school meetings.” He drags a pen down the line and circles a few names. He’s going to have to speak to Bodhi about taking on more responsibilities, because this is getting ridiculous. “Do you not like him?”

“No one likes Kay,” Jyn says flatly. “But he’s super smart and he lets us dick around in the lab, so whatever. What tattoo did he get? He never mentioned wanting to get one, but he has to know who you are—sneaky bastard. Bet he found you in the school records. He’s so weird.” She smacks the counter suddenly, making Baze’s pen judder across the page.

“Jyn!”

“ _Baze_!” she mimics. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Yes! I—uh, no. Sorry.” He tucks his pen behind his ear and fumbles in the counter drawer for his reading glasses. “What were you saying?”

“Never mind.” She frowns and kicks her feet, but stops when he doesn’t say anything. “Baze? Everything okay? You’re a little…” She trails off, spinning her finger in the air.

“A little _what_?”

“You didn’t even yell at me about sitting on the counter. So what’s up?” Her eyes fall to the appointment book and narrow when they fasten on Chirrut’s name, only partially hidden under the press of his thumb. “Did you and Chirrut have a fight?”

“Of course not,” he says automatically, but it’s clear she doesn’t believe him.

“About what? Baze, come on, you guys can’t fight! Things are finally going good for once!”

“What is that supposed to mean?” he mutters, not really expecting a response. “And it wasn’t a fight, it was… a minor disagreement. People disagree sometimes, it isn’t the end of the world.”

She scowls mightily. “You’d better not break up. I haven’t ever seen you this happy before, and yeah, it’s a little weird, but I don’t want it to stop. And Chirrut’s pretty cool, so if you _do_ break up I’m still going to hang out with him.”

This small tirade, improbably, has Baze fighting back a smile—particularly at the idea of Jyn and Chirrut _hanging out_. “We’re not ‘breaking up,’ Jyn. Okay? And hey, you were the one who fought with him first, and look at you now. Practically best friends. I haven’t heard you call him _Professor_ in weeks. So that definitely means I can’t break up with him.”

“Yeah. Where else are you gonna find someone I’ll approve of?” She crosses her arms, apparently satisfied with the outcome of their argument, and Baze pokes her in the shoulder.

“Exactly. Now off the counter. _Please_.”

“Dammit,” she says, far too cheerfully. She hops off the counter and dusts off her behind. “I’m gonna go see if Bodhi needs any help in the back. Call Chirrut and apologize, okay? Don’t put it off!”

Baze leans his hip against the counter and watches her go, sighing. A part of him feels like he should tell her off for language, but he’s said worse in front of her, so he doesn’t really have a leg to stand on. He looks at his phone. It’s been silent all afternoon. He thumbs through his recent messages—Chirrut’s is near the top, a little winky-face emoji in reply to Baze’s reminder about their checkup today. With a sigh, he selects his contact info and lifts the phone to his ear.

“Baze,” Chirrut says almost immediately. He sounds carefully neutral, but not outright hostile, which is good.

“Hey, babe. I was wondering if you wanted to get baozi tonight.” He bites down on his tongue a little bit, wondering if he should have opened with an apology. But Chirrut loves the nickname _babe_ for some reason Baze can’t discern—maybe that will be apology enough.

“It’s too cold to sit outside,” Chirrut says after a few long, aching seconds. “And I’m not eating in that tiny stand, it’s so cramped I can’t even hear myself think.”

“I’ll pick up some takeout and bring it over. Our usual.”

Chirrut hums consideringly. “And tea?”

“Tea, too.”

There’s a stretch of silence, and then a little sigh. “All right. Come soon, or I’m having pizza delivered and I’m eating it without you.”

Baze grins. _Forgiven_. “It’s a deal.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baze has a long hard think. Chirrut has a long hard... something else. Wink wonk.

The door is unlocked when Baze arrives at Chirrut’s apartment. He brushes away a rambling tukka vine to reach the handle, and lets himself in. It’s late enough that it’s almost completely dark outside, with NaJedha just a soft, indistinct blur of pale light near the horizon, and bitterly cold to boot—but inside, there are candles lit, and Chirrut has left the kitchen light on for him, warm and inviting. Baze sets their takeaway bag on the counter and shrugs off his coat and shoes, patting Echo when she wanders in to investigate.

“Just in time.” Chirrut materializes in the hall, tapping something into his phone. “I was just about to place my order.”

“Tram was slow,” Baze says. When he leans in close for a kiss hello, he can see that the screen of Chirrut’s phone is just open to a blank note page littered with scrambled letters. He smiles and busses his lips across Chirrut’s brow. “They had a special on the pork buns tonight, I hope you’re hungry.”

Chirrut sniffs and pockets his phone. “Starving.” Then, without prompting, he wraps his arms around Baze’s shoulders and presses their bellies flush together to whisper in his ear, “How about you?”

A lick of heat curls in Baze’s pelvis, and he squeezes Chirrut’s hips with both hands before rubbing up his spine over his sweater. It’s a bulky taupe monstrosity, probably from a thrift store, but Chirrut manages to look utterly gorgeous in it anyway. “Mph,” he says instead of answering, and rubs his mouth to the curve of his neck. “Love you.”

Chirrut exhales, presses closer for a moment before drawing away. His face is pink in the low light as he straightens his sweater. “Yes, yes. Let’s eat quickly, I don’t like to have sex on an empty stomach.”

Baze swallows a laugh but it comes out anyway, garbled and high-pitched. “Chirrut!”

“What?” He makes a moue with his pretty pink mouth and throws it over his shoulder as he goes to unpack dinner. “Sex is an integral part of making up after a fight, or have I been misinformed?”

Baze just shakes his head and goes to grab plates.

Chirrut has a little smile tucked into his mouth as he dishes out their food. The tea came in little paper cups with the leaves still in to brew, and these he pours into proper tea bowls, using a strainer to remove the leaves. Then they settle on the couch in the next room, Chirrut pushing his sock feet into Baze’s lap as soon as he sits down. Baze sets his plate down on Chirrut’s shins in retaliation and squeezes his knee.

“Jyn was worried today that we were going to break up.”

He isn’t completely sure why he says it—the mood between them is calm, if quiet, and he doesn’t mean to disrupt the status quo—but Chirrut doesn’t take offense. “Was she? I hope you told her that it would take more than a little disagreement to scare me off.”

Baze licks sauce off his chopsticks and hums. “Essentially.”

“I’m touched that she’s so concerned about it.” He slurps his rice noodles and grins with his gums all black from the sauce. “Are _you_ concerned about it?”

Baze snorts, because Chirrut is ridiculous, but then he takes a moment to really think about it. He’d felt _uneasy_ arguing with Chirrut, because he always hates to butt heads about things they’re passionate about, but he hasn’t ever really worried that Chirrut would just drop him and not look back. They’re too closely intertwined, now, too deep in each other’s pockets. And while they disagree on things sometimes, _serious_ things, it had never made it so that Baze held a grudge, or wanted space.

“Baze?”

The anxious tone in Chirrut’s voice drags him back to the present. “Sorry. Was thinking.”

“Thinking pretty hard,” Chirrut teases, but there’s still a note of uncertainty there.

“Yeah.” He nabs another bun and drags it through the sauce on his plate. “I was just thinking, we’ve had our disagreements, but I have this… certainty that things will work out, even though I’ve been given no evidence to support it. And I was trying to figure out why.”

“No evidence?” With a flick of his wrist, Chirrut steals the bun out from between his chopsticks and pops the whole thing into his mouth. “How about _I love you_ ,” he says, muffled through the pork and sticky dough. “How about, you’ve become an irreplaceable part of my life and I can’t imagine not having you in it?” He swallows and wipes the back of his mouth with his wrist, leaning forward. Baze pushes his plate toward him and he steals another bun. “How about—and don’t laugh, please—I dreamed about the starbird on my back before I’d even met you, and now that you’ve carved it into my skin it hurts to think about being apart from you?” Then he jams the bun into his mouth and chews viciously, one ears cocked in Baze’s direction as if in challenge.

Three and a half months, Baze thinks longsufferingly. That was all it took. Three and a half months, and Chirrut is stuck under his skin like a burr, stuck in his heart, his flesh. He puts his plate on the coffee table and leans toward him, hooking an arm around his shoulders to pull him close.

“ _Tu bha’at_ ,” he whispers, and Chirrut buries his laughter in Baze’s neck.

“Call me a stubborn old fool again and I’ll punch you,” he warns, but his voice is too soft and sticky with baozi for Baze to take him seriously.

“Oh, is that what that means? I was under the impression that it meant _I adore you_.”

“Your Old Jedhan is perfectly acceptable, don’t pretend to be stupider than you are.” Chirrut puts his chopsticks aside and cards his fingers through Baze’s hair. “It’s all right, then? _We’re_ all right?”

“Yeah, we’re all right.” He kisses Chirrut’s forehead. “I can’t promise I won’t worry, but I _am_ happy for you. I know you’ve wanted this for… a very long time.” His voice meanders, distracted as Chirrut places a neat row of damp little kisses to the side of his neck. “And I… support you. Always.”

Chirrut hums and tucks his chin against Baze’s shoulder. “I’ll permit you to worry, I suppose. Though I wonder at your change of heart. It wasn’t that long ago that you had more faith in the Council than I did. What was it you said… _they’re fairly harmless?_ What changed your mind?”

“Watching the man you love getting shot can change a lot,” Baze says, a little more fiercely than he’d meant to. “Sorry. I just… I know the Order better than I’d like. And I don’t trust Krennic.”

“Hmm. Yes, he is a seedy little man, isn’t he? Awfully self-important. Was he good-looking?” Chirrut asks suddenly, and Baze twitches.

“Sorry?”

“Was he handsome? Men like that are either compensating for their looks, their height, or… something else.”

“ _Chirrut_.” Baze sighs. “He wasn’t particularly tall _or_ short. I suppose he wasn’t bad-looking, objectively.”

“Then it must be the penis.” Chirrut says it with such decisive finality that Baze can’t help it—he guffaws, chest shaking so hard that he knocks Chirrut off his perch. But he is smiling, too, even as he leans away to rescue a cup of tea from falling off the arm of the couch. “You laugh…”

“I don’t want to think about it, okay? Gods.” He rubs Chirrut’s back through the sweater as he sips, hunched over with his elbows on his thighs. “Just promise me you’ll watch yourself around him.”

“Baze, I’m _blind_.”

“Shut up. You know what I mean.”

Chirrut sobers, finally, and sets his empty cup aside. “I do. And I will, I promise.” Then he gives a little energetic wriggle, like a dog unable to contain its excitement, and insinuates himself into Baze’s lap, hooking both arms around his neck. “Oh, Baze. I still can’t believe it. I read the drafts for the proposal every day just to be sure I’m not dreaming.”

Disquiet still lingers in the back of his mind, but Chirrut’s excitement is contagious—Baze smiles and wraps his arms around him, enjoying the easy way they fit together like this. Physically, yes, but also in each other’s lives.

“Someday,” Chirrut muses, calming a little as Baze draws circles on his thigh with his fingers, “I’m going to ask you about this… _history_ with the Order. This isn’t the first time you’ve hinted at it, and my patience will only last so long.”

Baze groans. “There is no history, not really. And I don’t want to think about the Order right now. Or Krennic, or the force—the _police_ force, idiot, not the _Force_. Don’t make that face at me.”

“Fine,” Chirrut huffs. “What _do_ you want to think about?”

Baze nibbles on the shell of his ear and smirks at the resulting gasp. “I think you know.”

“Dirty old man,” he chides, even as he wiggles lower in Baze’s lap.

“You started it. _And_ you’re older than me, so don’t go pointing fingers.”

“Two years is hardly anything when you’re our age.” Chirrut kisses him before he can make a retort, and wedges his arm between the couch and Baze’s spine to grab his ass. “Come on, I’m not fucking on the couch like a teenager.”

“Don’t act like you’re not flexible enough.”

“Oh, please. _I_ know I’m flexible enough. I’m worried about _you_.” He smirks at him and doesn’t show an ounce of repentance, even when Baze pinches his bottom on the way to the bedroom.

Chirrut’s room is like an extension of his veranda: lit a bright orange from the halogen glow of the city beyond his sheer curtains, with plants everywhere and the detritus of an absent-minded professor littering every surface. But aside from the greenery and the books and the occasional bizarre knick-knack—the feline skull on its little tower of unread junk mail is Baze’s favorite—the place is fairly spartan. There is nothing on the walls, the floor is bare wood, and the bed doesn’t even have a frame, sitting squarely on its box springs with two flat pillows and a white duvet that never seems to be tucked in quite right. Chirrut pushes him onto it without warning and crawls right over him, already angling for a kiss.

“Ouch,” Baze says, while Chirrut’s lips are still occupied with the scruff on his jaw. “Chirrut, _ow_ , wait—”

“Oh, my book!” Chirrut exclaims. He grabs for it when Baze digs the thing out from under his back and sets it carefully on the ground. “There. Sorry. I don’t think there’s anything else on here.”

“Just you,” Baze retorts, and flips them so that Chirrut is on his back, laughing his head off while Baze fights with his sweater.

The room feels colder once they're naked, so Baze tugs the duvet up around his shoulders and reaches preemptively into the bedside table for lube. Chirrut purrs at the sound of the drawer opening and shutting again with a bang, and reaches for the bottle.

“Let me,” Baze demurs. “I want to.”

“It won’t kill me to do some of the work, you know,” Chirrut says, but he lays back anyway, one arm behind his head and the other reaching down, down into the covers to hang onto Baze’s hair as he burrows underneath. It’s perfectly dark and warm in here as he uncaps the lube and rubs newly-slicked fingers against Chirrut’s perineum. The duvet muffles things a little, but he can still hear Chirrut’s undisguised gasps of pleasure every time he presses in just the right place.

He teases him for a little while, enjoying the thud of his own heartbeat in his ears. Then Chirrut tugs on his hair, demanding, and he lifts up a little, letting a draft of cool air into his den. “Get on with it,” Chirrut pouts, and then gasps, biting his lower lip as Baze slips a finger inside.

“Like that?”

“Fuck you,” Chirrut says, and Baze laughs and ducks down again.

His cock is right there, so he kisses it a little bit while he works his fingers in and out, one at a time, until Chirrut is gripping him so tight it feel like his hair is being pulled out by the roots. Then he crawls up, fists his cock to slick it, and buries himself between Chirrut’s thighs.

“Ohhhhhh,” Chirrut sighs, long and low. It takes a few thrusts to get the angle right, to plant his knees the way that feels best, and then Baze ducks his head and grabs him by the hips for the long haul.

Chirrut likes it best this way, no matter the position or who happens to be topping—as long as Baze has his mouth by his ear, hair falling over his face, he’s happy. He’s smiling right now, in fact, eyes shut in bliss as Baze sets a steady pace. It wasn’t quite this easy in the beginning. Baze hasn’t had a very regular sex life, particularly since adopting Jyn, and he wasn’t used to the _hunger_ in Chirrut, the way he seemed so eager for Baze’s hands and mouth and cock at the drop of a hat.

But now… oh, now. A month of practice makes a world of difference. “You feel so good,” he whispers, and Chirrut whines. He hitches his hips up with a hand under the small of his back and works him harder, enjoying the firm, unmistakable slap every time their bodies connect. Chirrut gasps, spreads his legs a little wider—slides his feet against Baze’s flanks in eager invitation.

“More,” he grits out. The hand in Baze’s hair joins the other up over his own head, braced against the wall. “Baze, give me _more_.”

“Insatiable,” Baze tuts, but he obeys. Chirrut is bossy as _fuck_ in bed, regardless of position, and Baze kind of loves it.

His quads have certainly gained a little more definition in the last month or so, thanks to Chirrut’s sex drive. They’re burning right now as he picks up the pace, following the heat in his veins, sparking to ignition every time Chirrut huffs and sighs and tosses his head. In spite of his hands against the wall, Baze is pushing him closer and closer to the edge of the mattress, but he takes it with a smile on his face, legs wrapped around Baze’s middle and his mouth wide open and gasping.

“You’ve got that look on your face,” Baze murmurs, slowing his roll a little. Chirrut makes a grumpy sound and squeezes his thighs around him, but takes the bait.

“What look?”

Baze reaches out, traces the swollen pink of his lower lip. “That flush, like you’re close.” He kicks his hips and grins when Chirrut cries out, slamming his forearm against the wall. “Are you close, _tiánxīn?_ ”

“You know,” Chirrut pants, “that I am. Fuck you, Baze Malbus.”

“I’m trying to fuck _you_ ,” Baze retorts mildly. He lowers his head to kiss his way down Chirrut’s sternum, then to one side, tonguing each pebbled nipple and sucking bright red bruises wherever he can reach. Chirrut wails, arching back against the mattress. His hands claws at the wall, hard enough that Baze wonders if they’ll leave marks behind to paint over later, and he speeds up again, every breath sounding hoarse and ragged in his own ears as he chases the brink.

A tiny little cry emerges when Chirrut comes, blotchy and red and sheened with sweat. Baze fucks him through it, watching him spill all over himself untouched—he’s gripping his hips hard enough to leave bruises, he realizes, but he’s so close to the edge that he can’t bring himself to let go. Then his orgasm slams into him, hard enough to knock the breath out of him, or so it feels. He lays his cheek flat on Chirrut’s sternum and gasps for air.

It takes a bit, but eventually he can feel the vibrations as Chirrut hums something under his breath, can feel the sweat cooling where the duvet has slipped down his back. He shifts his weight, groaning at the complaints of his knees, and smiles when Chirrut’s curious fingers find his face.

“That was good,” Chirrut murmurs, just a little bit hoarse. “Come here. Lie down, you great beast.” With a touch as tender as his voice, he prods Baze to flop over and lay on his back, belly still heaving up and down for breath. He leans over him, hand to his ribs, and kisses him softly. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

He stays, but his eyes wander, following Chirrut as he gets up and goes into the small adjoining bathroom. Even without the light on, he can see everything: Chirrut’s scarred back, the starbird swallowing up the dark pucker of his bullet wound. The hollow of his sacrum, the trickle of Baze’s spend running down his thigh, the long lines of his legs—all illuminated by the soft orange glow of the city at night. His chest grows tight as he watches him clean up and return to bed. That fullness, back again. Stopping his voice and his breath in his lungs.

“All right?” Chirrut says, once he’s wiped Baze’s spent cock and thrown the washcloth in the approximate direction of the hamper. It catches on the rim and stays there, by some miracle. Baze makes a mental note to move the hamper a few inches to the right the next time he gets up, and rolls over.

“C’mere,” he mumbles. Then, “Actually, hang on. I’ll be right there.”

He leans off the bed and fishes his phone out of his pocket while Chirrut makes himself comfortable. As expected, there’s a message waiting from Jyn.

_[Did you make up yet????]_

He smiles. _[All’s well. Don’t expect me back before morning. Xx]_

 _[gross]_ is the only reply. He laughs and throws his phone on the floor, and when he turns back, Chirrut’s arms are open and waiting for him.

“Something you’d like to share with the class?” Chirrut asks. He’s back to playing with Baze’s hair, gathering the strands around his face and weaving them into tiny braids.

“Jyn. Told her I’d be home tomorrow, her response was ‘gross.’”

Chirrut snorts, shaking Baze’s body where he lies against him. “Ah, children.” He pats Baze’s shoulder until he reaches his forearm, and drags it forcibly across his body. Baze curls his hand around his ribs and squeezes. “Baze! That tickles.”

“Sorry,” Baze says, not sorry at all. He feels sleepy, but he doesn’t want to _fall_ asleep, not yet. It’s not even that late. Early enough still to lay together in bed, holding each other, listening to each other breathe and laugh and think. Thinking in particular—he can hear the whirring of Chirrut’s brain from here like a vacuum running two doors down. He bunches the pillow up beneath his head and sticks his cold nose against Chirrut’s upper arm. “What’s on your mind?”

“Hmmm. I was thinking of bringing our leftovers in here and eating them in bed.” Chirrut strokes his hairy forearm thoughtfully. “And I was thinking about the Force.”

“Surprise, surprise.”

“Hush, you.” He pinches his wrist very lightly in reproof. “I didn’t mean _that_ Force.”

“Oh.” A long pause. “The police force?”

“Yes. I know you said you didn’t want to think about it…”

“There are a lot of things I don’t want to think about while I’m having sex with you,” Baze says. “But we’re not having sex _now_.”

“I don’t want to ruin the afterglow,” Chirrut says humbly.

“Well, it’s already on your mind—and now it’s on _mine_ , too, so.” He draws his palm up Chirrut’s side, firm enough not to tickle, and rests it on his shoulder, just to the right of his bullet scar. It’s thick and wrinkly when he grazes it with his thumb, but Chirrut doesn’t pull away. “Chirrut, promise me you won’t get shot again.”

Chirrut’s belly shakes with surprised laughter. “I will most certainly try. I can’t say it was a very enjoyable experience.” He hesitates. “ _You’ve_ been shot before.”

“Well, yes. In the line of duty. But that’s different.”

“And you’re not a cop anymore. So less chance of getting shot at.”

“One would hope.”

“Baze…”

“Mph?”

“Why did you leave the force?”

Baze stirs, and turns his head to look at him in the dim light of Jedha City filtering in through the shades. “I was offered a promotion.”

Chirrut doesn’t laugh. “Generally that’s cause for celebration, not quitting.”

“It wasn’t the kind of promotion worth celebrating.” He sits up in bed and leans against the pillows, all thoughts of sleep shaken from his mind. Chirrut follows suit, and goes willingly when Baze pulls him down to lay against him. “I liked where I was. In charge of my own unit, plenty of field work, a team I picked myself that I trusted. Our district was one of the safest in the city. Then my commanding officer brought me into his office one day and told me there was a Superintendent’s desk with my name on it, if I wanted.”

“It would have taken you out of the field,” Chirrut says, obviously hunting for details.

“That’s true. Honestly, I might have taken it if that were the only downside—I’d had a close call the year before, and I had Jyn to think of. If something happened to me… I couldn’t. I couldn’t do that to her, not again.” He thinks of Saw and his blood boils. “I would’ve gladly sat behind a desk every day and pushed papers if it meant keeping Jyn safe and happy. But that wasn’t the catch.” He turns his head to one side, just enough to rest his cheek against the crown of Chirrut’s head. “A few weeks before they offered me the job, we’d gotten a new DC. Head of the three lower districts. She was a stickler, they said, which was fine by me. Meant she knew how to get the job done, wouldn’t take any shit from anyone. But then things… started happening. Good officers, people I’d worked with before or just heard of, started disappearing. Not getting offed, I don’t mean that, just… leaving. Retiring, being shifted around to other departments, other districts.

“I asked around, after meeting with my boss. Looked up some old friends in the force. Turns out, the new DC was an Order plant. She was weeding out the good from the questionable, transferring the people who would have gotten in her way. Who would have seen what she was. And the promotion… I never found out for sure, but I think the promotion came down from her.”

Chirrut frowns. “She was trying to get you out of the way by _promoting_ you?”

“She was trying to get me into her inner circle. Not because I was corrupt, or particularly malleable, but because I was good at my job. People trusted me—if I followed her, they would follow, too. The South Jedha districts together are almost as big as the rest of the city combined. That’s a lot of officers. A lot of good people who would’ve turned a blind eye if I did, too. And…” He rubs his forehead at the memory. “Maybe this is just the paranoia, but I think it was because of Jyn, too.”

Chirrut has been quietly listening for the most part, but at this he sits up and faces Baze, his frown pulling at the crow’s feet that line his beautiful eyes. “Baze, I know it’s none of my business, but—who _is_ she? Who was that man who came to your house the day of the riots?”

Baze tips his head back against the headboard and sighs. He’s only shocked that it took Chirrut this long to ask. “That was Galen Erso. Head Engineer at the First Order military base. He’s her birth father.”

Chirrut bows his head, and Baze can practically hear the gears turning in his head. “Her father is working for the Order. But… he’s alive, and well. Why isn’t she with him? Or why didn’t he at least put her in a boarding school or something of the kind?”

“His wife. Lyra. We were good friends, once upon a time; Jyn practically grew up in my tattoo shop. Galen fell in with the Order sort of on accident as a young man, but when he met Lyra she convinced him to leave them and join her in her own research lab in Jedha City. But… the Order didn’t like that. I never got the full story, but from what I understand, they came looking for Galen’s research and when Lyra tried to get them to leave, they… killed her.”

Chirrut’s hand tightens on his and his face creases with pain. “Baze, I’m so sorry.”

“It was years ago,” he says gruffly, but the comfort of Chirrut’s warmth and touch make it easy to continue. “Saw was the one who first had custody of Jyn. Lyra had known him for years, longer than I, and her will stated that in the event of her and Galen’s deaths, she was to go to Saw. Galen wasn’t dead, obviously, but he didn’t want her growing up on a military base, particularly a military base for the people who had had her mother killed. So he signed away his parental rights and left Jyn in Saw’s care.” He shakes his head, remembering the day eleven-year-old Jyn had showed up on his doorstep with an officer on either elbow. “She kept running away, so eventually it worked out that I was given custody. With Galen’s blessing. I never really knew him well, but Lyra’s good opinion must have been enough.”

“She had good taste,” Chirrut says, proudly. He touches Baze’s lower lip, coaxing a slight smile out of him. “You seem to have more reason than most people to hate the Order. And yet you stay away from politics, for the most part. You don’t speak out.” He doesn’t sound judgemental, just curious, which makes it easy for Baze to answer.

“I fight in my own way. I’m not—I’m not good with words, like you. I couldn’t give a speech without throwing up if my life depended on it. You laugh,” he warns when Chirrut does just that. He spreads a hand over Chirrut’s back, tracing the lines of the half-finished _zama-shiwo_. “This is my rebellion. Keeping the old ways as best I can. Preserving our traditions. It’s not much, but… it’s what I can do.”

“It’s enough,” Chirrut whispers, rising up on one elbow to press their foreheads together. “Baze. _You_ are enough.”

It’s the best kind of _I love you_ that Baze has ever received.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jyn climbs a wall. Cassian makes a friend. Baze craves that mineral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative title: in which your humble author pretends to know things about archaeology but doesn't actually know shit.

Baze puts the finishing touches on Chirrut’s _zama-shiwo_ in the early spring, a few weeks ahead of schedule. This apparently calls for a celebration, and they find themselves dragged to Maz’s watering hole by Jyn and Bodhi and their friends, which is both perplexing and heartwarming. Baze feels simultaneously old and very, very young again, sitting pressed up against Chirrut in the narrow booth drinking good beer and keeping his hand high up on Chirrut’s thigh until he stammers and turns red, and Jyn’s suspicious looks make him stop.

It all works out in the end, because Chirrut’s back has fully healed just in time to start work on the Temple. As promised, Director Krennic had spent the last six months pulling all the details together, and one morning on the cusp of summer—with a scarf pulled up to his eyes and his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets against the chill—Baze watches Chirrut gleefully cut the ribbon to begin the dig, officially.

It’s only then that Baze realizes how _boring_ archaeology is. Not for Chirrut, obviously, and certainly not for Krennic, who for all his simpering and prancing about is actually pretty good about getting his hands dirty. But as a bystander, there isn’t really much to see or do. And Baze has his own work to be doing, anyway, so he contents himself with listening to Chirrut’s excited chatter on the phone, or in person on the evenings they spend together, and tries to put his worries out of his mind. Hovering around the dig site glaring at anyone who so much as looks twice at Chirrut isn’t going to help anyone.

It takes him a while to realize it’s Chirrut he has to thank for the upward surge in business at the tattoo parlor. Ever since the Temple Riots, and the brief but potent wildfire of Jedhan pride that had roared through the city in its aftermath, there’s been a steady uptick of interest in _zama-shiwo_. There are plenty of regular customers, too, but eventually Baze is forced to do _zama-shiwo_ full time and let Bodhi handle the regular ink. Consultations alone take up half his days if not more, and he has to hire an actual receptionist to work the front desk while Jyn concentrates on schoolwork.

As busy as he is, it’s hard to ignore the fact that he sees less and less of Chirrut as the dig progresses. Dinner dates are missed, rain-checked, rescheduled. Impromptu lunches are often cut short when Chirrut receives some kind of update or other and has to run, usually leaving his half-eaten sandwich behind. On the weekends when he isn’t up all night in the lab, he’s distracted, restless—Baze will wake up in the middle of the night to find him awake in the living room of whoever’s apartment they happen to be in, headphones in and mind a million miles away as he listens to the data recordings collected during the week.

He tries not to begrudge him this. He knows his partner well enough by now to know that he’s all or nothing, that he takes whatever project he’s working on with both hands and lets it devour him. Chirrut would gleefully walk into a dragon’s open mouth if it was required—Baze knows this, and tries to be accepting of it. Baze is busy too, after all, and at the very least he can be a sounding board when Chirrut needs to talk theories out to someone who won’t answer back.

But Jyn notices, of course, because Jyn notices everything. On the day she graduates from her tech school class, he picks her up and takes her the rec center downtown to celebrate, and they’re halfway up the “god-mode” rock climbing wall, Jyn just a little bit ahead, when she turns to him and says, “I thought maybe Chirrut would be here.”

Baze misses a handhold and curses when he has to sink back down a few feet to regather his bearings. “He said he might, if he could swing it.” He lunges up, tries again, and this time his grip is sure. “I guess he couldn’t swing it.”

Jyn frowns and waits for him to catch up. “Is he even still alive? I can’t remember the last time you guys went out, and I’m pretty sure he only eats when you remind him to.”

“He’s an adult,” Baze replies, a little too curtly. “He can take care of himself.”

He finds a good spot for a breather and braces himself there, blowing a strand of hair out of his face. He doesn’t like the worry in Jyn’s voice. Chirrut’s schedule is something he can put up with, since he knows how passionate Chirrut is about the work he does; and, more pressingly, that this obsessiveness is only a passing phase. Eventually the thrill will even out into something more manageable, and Chirrut will remember he has a life outside the excavation. Baze just has to dig in his heels and wait. But Jyn…

“If it bothers you, I can talk to him,” he says. He doesn’t like that look on her face, the shadow of uncertainty in her eyes. He normally only sees that look when she’s been on the phone with Galen, and to see it now, because of _Chirrut_ , twists the stoic knife he bears a little deeper.

“It only bothers me because it bothers _you_ ,” she retorts. She leans back into her harness, hanging onto the wall with one hand, and brushes her bangs out of her face. “And don’t tell me it doesn’t. I can tell you miss him.” Without waiting for a reply, she hoists herself up and soon climbs out of reach of quiet conversation.

Baze follows, but he’s lost his focus, and after a few minutes of strafing he waves to his belayer to let him down. On the ground, he shakes out his sore muscles and sits by the communal cubbies to check his phone. There are no new messages. Instead of opening a new one to berate Chirrut for his absence—he’ll let Jyn do that herself, if she chooses; she’s never been shy about telling Chirrut off before—he scrolls through his saved photos until he reaches the one he’s looking for.

It’s him and Chirrut at his kitchen table, softly illuminated by the early morning light skimming through the window. They’ve pulled the chairs around to face each other and they’re kissing over the edge of the table. Jyn had taken it the day after the riots and sent it to him later. Baze hadn’t even told her off for it. It was a good picture. And a good reminder.

His phone buzzes suddenly in his hand. It’s from Chirrut. _[I can’t make it today, I’m sorry. Tell Jyn I’ll take her out for dinner to make up for it. X]_

Baze sighs and presses his lips together, refusing to be disappointed. _[I’ll tell her.]_

/

He’s uncomfortably aware that if Chirrut misses dinner with Jyn, Baze is going to have to give him a Talk with a capital T. But everything goes smoothly—he’s at work late, and they send him an inordinate amount of selfies from Jyn’s phone, all with Chirrut facing in precisely the wrong direction, and Chirrut drops her off afterward with a little carton of extra dessert for Baze.

“I’m going to say hi to Bodhi,” Jyn announces, a little too loudly, and she whips past Baze to the back room so fast he can feel a draft. Baze clears his throat.

“Dinner was good, then?”

“Oh, delicious.” Chirrut bids Echo to sit by the door and comes the rest of the way into the shop. His hands skim the edges of the glass countertop and he braces his elbows on it, leaning forward. Baze sighs and meets him halfway. It’s not until their lips meet, pressing close and warmly chaste, that he realizes how long it’s been since they’ve kissed. _A week? Has it been that long?_

“I’m glad you had a good time,” he says when they part, faltering only a little over the words. The fear that he’s managed to suppress for this long is rising up in his throat, sharp and unchecked. _He’s going to leave you. He’s found something else to love, something that won’t let him down._

“It was certainly… educational,” Chirrut says, his lighthearted tone at odds with the gaping pit in Baze’s chest. “I received a bit of a lecture from Jyn. Well-deserved, I must say.” When Baze says nothing, not wanting his voice to give him away, Chirrut frowns and reaches for his cheek. Baze only just manages not to pull away. “I hope you aren’t upset with her. She only said what I needed to hear.”

“Upset…? No, I’m not upset with her. I know you can hold your own. You _like_ it when she speaks her mind.” Baze catches his hand before it can read any more of his face and holds it, kissing the fingertips. “She forgave you, I hope.”

Chirrut looks puzzled. “Forgave me?”

“For not coming to the rec center with us. I told her it would probably be difficult for you, with the climbing wall and everything, but she was so insistent…”

Chirrut’s short, disbelieving laugh cuts him off mid-thought. “That’s not what the lecture was for, Baze. Heavens, don’t you know? She said…” He takes his hand away and comes around the counter, palm brushing the glass, until he stands right in front of Baze, his face tipped up in a mimicry of eye contact. “I’ve been neglecting you. I’ve been so caught up with things at the dig that I hardly even noticed we were seeing less and less of each other.” He reaches out, palms up, and waits. With a little sharp twist of bittersweet relief, Baze slowly takes his hands and pulls him to his chest.

“You don’t have to apologize for that. This is important to you, I understand.”

“You deserve better,” Chirrut says firmly. He puts Baze’s hands on his waist and reaches up, brushing a lock of hair behind one ear and cupping his face. His thumbs stretch to touch the corners of Baze’s mouth, and Chirrut’s face creases unhappily. “I’m sorry, Baze.”

Baze kisses him softly. “I told you. You don’t have to apologize.”

“Yes, well, I’m apologizing anyway. So you’d better accept it so that we can move past this and figure it out.”

His tone is so tart and put-off that Baze has to laugh. “All right. Apology accepted. Now what?”

Chirrut puts on an exaggerated thinking face. “Kisses. Lots of them. I would suggest make-up sex, but I don’t think we should do it with the children in the next room—mph!” His flow of words is stemmed when Baze swoops in again, this time with more intent. Chirrut kisses back with a toothy smile and a hungry tongue, and he purrs when Baze slips a hand down to squeeze his backside.

Baze’s phone vibrates loudly on the counter, separating them with a start. It’s from Jyn. _[Bodhi’s almost done cleaning up so finish your makeout sesh in five pls]_

“Jyn telling us to wrap it up,” he says into Chirrut’s hair when his partner tucks his face against his shoulder. He rubs Chirrut’s back and sighs. “Want a lift home?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

By the time he gets home, it’s very late, but he closes the door to his study and dials Chirrut’s number as requested. They spend an hour talking—about the dig, about Baze’s steady stream of _zama-shiwo_ clients, about Jyn’s education and Bodhi’s history with the air force and Cassian’s trouble with the law. He’d been detained on the street for passing out anti-Order pamphlets and would have been arrested if Mr. So, Jyn’s engineering teacher, hadn’t happened along.

“I’ve let things slide,” Chirrut confesses in the quiet. Baze grunts his disagreement, sketching mindlessly in the small pool of light cast by his desk lamp. “No, I have. Cassian is… he’s a bit of a loose cannon. He’s always been a rebel. Working for me, training with me, has been good for him. I thought that if I left, he would continue to work hard and flourish, but Shara tells me he’s passed one of his classes off to Leia and has been absent for some of his private lessons. I’ve failed him, like I’ve failed you.”

“Chirrut, no. You haven’t _failed_ anyone. Cassian is cut from the same cloth that you are—that’s why you get along so well. Both of you rebels and reckless fools.” He’s smiling as he says it, though, and he knows Chirrut can hear the fondness in his voice. “He just needs a little prod or two in the right direction.”

“I told him, no more pamphlets. No more public demonstrations, unless he has people with him. This isn’t a fight for just one person.” Chirrut sighs, crackling through the phone, but Baze doesn’t dare take it away from his ear. The sound of his voice, directed solely at him, is too precious to waste. “What about Jyn? I know they’ve been spending time together. Has she had any… trouble?”

“Not yet, not that I’ve heard of. She seems to think Bodhi is in need of a… maternal presence. Don’t tell her I said that.”

“Ha! I won’t. I thought she seemed more mellow at dinner tonight.”

Baze hums and sticks the end of the pencil in his mouth. “I think the Temple Riots may have had something to do with it. She’s got a big heart. Seeing you hurt was… I don’t know. A bit of a wake-up call, maybe.”

“So more than one good thing has come from it.” Chirrut sounds pleased, even through the disapproval Baze is surely radiating at him through the airwaves. “Baze. If a small wound can bring good things, wasn’t it worth the pain of it?”

“I’m not fighting with you about the Force tonight, Chirrut.”

Chirrut sighs. “Yes, love.” The silence stretches out between them, comfortable rather than awkward. Baze takes the pencil out of his mouth and leans forward, sketching a little more intently. The shape that comes to him feels like the sound of Chirrut’s voice in his ear—a bird in flight, wings outstretched, reaching for an endless sky. “What are you drawing?” Chirrut asks after a while. “I can hear the scratch of the pencil.”

“Just doodling. Nothing serious.” He follows a whim and draws the first unfolding petal of a lotus blossom. “What about you?”

“What am I drawing?” Chirrut echoes, amused.

“No, what are you doing? Where are you sitting?” He huffs a smile into the phone. “Paint me a word picture, _tiánxīn_.”

“I’m on the couch,” Chirrut says agreeably. “Laying down. My limbs feel like lead—I may just sleep here tonight.”

“Tsk.”

“Hush. It’s comfortable enough.” He sighs, low and soft, and Baze aches quietly to hold him in his arms.

“I miss you,” he blurts into the phone. Then, feeling foolish, “I’m sorry, ignore that.”

“I don’t want to ignore it. Baze…” Another sigh and the rustling of cloth comes through the other end, and Baze pictures him kicking off his shoes and pulling the blanket over himself, snuggling into the enormous couch that dominates his living room. Baze has made love to him on that couch many times over the last few months, but right he can’t remember the last time he touched his partner’s naked body. “I know you don’t want me to say it, but I’m sorry. Truly. I want to make it up to you.”

“You don’t have to,” Baze soothes. “Just… we’ll work on it. Call me, tell me what you’re working on. I want to know.”

“The next time we find something particularly interesting, will you come to the site?” Chirrut asks hesitantly. “If you’re free?”

“Of course. I would love to.” He catches a yawn in the crook of his elbow, but Chirrut hears it anyway.

“Go to bed, my love. I’ve kept you up with worries long enough.”

After some persuading, some gentle teasing back and forth, Baze bids him goodnight. Then, feeling weary but revived, he moves through the house, shutting off the lights. He stops by Jyn’s bedroom and peeks through the half-open door. She’s laying on her back across her bed, ankles crossing high up on the wall, nose buried in an engineering magazine as she blasts something through her enormous headphones. It takes her a minute, but when she sees him she lets the magazine flop onto her chest and smiles at him hesitantly.

“All good?”

The muffled, tinny sound of her music goes quiet when she grabs for her phone. Baze nods. “Good. Sleep tight, Jyn-feather. Don’t stay up too late.”

She sticks out her tongue at him.

///

In fits and starts, things get better. Summer rolls on into hot, dry days and cool nights, and sometimes when Baze is free, or when he can pawn off his work onto Bodhi, he escapes into the evening gloaming to join Chirrut at the excavation. The temporary attached lab becomes as familiar to him as his studio for all the hours he spends sitting on a stool, watching as Chirrut fawns over bits of pottery and pesters his lab techs for _more detail! Describe the exact shade of brown you see!_

He doesn’t much like Krennic, but then, no one really seems to. The man is more talk than anything else, and he has a habit of lecturing Chirrut as if his blindness prevents him from understanding things like _soil density_ and _ash deposits_. But Chirrut is all grace, even in the face of Krennic’s self-absorption, and somehow they manage to carry on a functioning work relationship.

“I don’t understand how you haven’t punched him in the face at least once,” Baze says conversationally, after Krennic stopped by the lab just to _check in_ one day in late summer. One of the lab techs overhears him and snorts with laughter, but Chirrut shakes his head.

“He is quite intelligent, under all the bluster. Things go more smoothly when I remember that, instead of focusing on the bullshit that falls out of his mouth on a regular basis. Here, taste this. What do you think?”

Baze rears back from his hand, encased in one of his special sensory gloves and wielding a little palmful of dirt. “That’s not food, Chirrut.”

“Yes, I know,” Chirrut sighs. “Smell it, then, if you’re going to be precious about it.”

Baze frowns, glances around, but the handful of lab techs are absorbed in their own workstations and don’t seem bothered by Chirrut’s… unorthodox methods. They’re probably used to it by now, Baze reflects. He leans forward and inhales. Then, when Chirrut’s hand doesn’t move, he darts out his tongue for a brief taste.

“Mph.” He smacks his lips and pulls a face. “It tastes like…”

“Carbon.” Chirrut sits up straight and prods the touchscreen of a Braille-enabled computer in front of him. “We’re getting close.”

“Close to what?”

Chirrut exhales and sits back, a beatific smile on his face as the computer whirrs away, running its calculations. “When the Temple was destroyed, the blast area was fairly concentrated. Whatever explosives or weapons they used didn’t reach far beyond the central structure. If we’ve found carbon, we’ve found ash. Which means we’re getting close to the remains of the core buildings.”

“Whatever’s left of them.”

Chirrut grins, undeterred by this small detail. “Precisely.”

The very next day, they hit tunnels. Baze’s phone is on silent and he misses the call, but as soon as he gets a spare moment he’s ducking out the door and taking the tram up to Old Jedha. The security guards know him by sight, now, and they wave him through the barrier to the dig site where Chirrut is practically bouncing on his toes in wait for him.

“Am I supposed to be here?” he asks as Chirrut drags him bodily down the scaffolding steps into the maw of what Krennic and Chirrut agree is the remains of a courtyard of some kind. None of the workers give him a second look, but he still feels awkward, like he’s in danger of ruining some ancient artifact just by breathing too hard.

“You’re fine,” Chirrut says dismissively. “I’m _Head Researcher_ , love.” He tap-tap-taps his way across the uneven ground with his cane—Echo rarely joins him at the dig anymore, since he’s so accustomed to making his way around the slowly-changing landscape—and stops quite suddenly, gesturing broadly with his arm. “See?”

Baze squints. “What am I looking at?”

“I don’t know, what _are_ you looking at?” Chirrut chirps back.

“It’s… a hole in the ground?”

“Precisely!”

“Chirrut, this area is _full_ of holes.”

“True, but none of them quite like this. You see, this hole is one we didn’t make.” He crouches down and reaches past the twine and stakes marking the hole’s location, brushing his fingers along the edge. “Look. This isn’t just dirt, this is _stonework_. Manmade.”

Unprecedented, Baze’s stomach gives a little flip. Chirrut is right—he can see, hiding beneath the clinging film of centuries of dirt, the evidence of flat stone stacked together and painted with crumbling stucco. “What is it?”

“Who knows? A well of some kind? The remains of a tower?” Chirrut rubs his hands together, crinkling his plastic sensory gloves together oddly. “We’re going to send a camera down in short order—and then, if it’s safe, a rappeler.”

“Master Îmwe!”

They both turn, and Baze watches as a lab tech he recognizes jogs toward them, wearing shorts and a tee shirt that are absolutely covered in dust. The kid can’t be older than Jyn, but he’s wearing a little badge that reads _Junior Archaeologist_ , and Baze has seen him pouring over samples for long enough to know that he’s good at his job.

“Hello, Finn. What’s the matter?”

“Oh, nothing’s the matter,” Finn says, gasping a little with exertion and excitement. “But you’ve gotta come see—gotta come, uh, we found another tunnel. Only this one has _stairs_.”

Chirrut had a bland look on his face that Baze recognizes—the same one he puts on whenever someone stumbles over themselves trying to avoid referencing Chirrut’s disability—but as soon as the word _stairs_ comes out of his mouth, Chirrut’s face brightens like the sun coming up over Jedha’s southern wall, and he clutches Baze’s arm without having to guess where it lies.

“Take us there!” he commands gleefully.

Finn leads the way along the foot of the escarpment, consciously choosing a path free of low obstacles or other workers. Baze’s opinion of him mellows even further. In spite of his cynical nature, he finds himself caught up in Chirrut’s excitement, and when they round a fallen pillar that vies with the one in the Old Square for size, he gasps in sync with Chirrut. Buried beneath rubble that has now been cleared away, a dark pit descends into the earth, bordered on either side by long spools of twine strung around to mark the spot.

“Here,” Finn says proudly. “It was already open—there were big slabs of metal over it, keeping the rubble out.”

Chirrut grips Baze’s arm with renewed strength and sweeps his cane forward. Just a few steps, and it swings out into empty air. When he lowers it, the ball at its tip finds the worn edge of a sandstone stair, shallow and broad; then the next, and the next. Baze resists the pull, but Chirrut steps down anyway, nearly vibrating with excitement. “How far down does it go? Is it structurally sound?”

There’s a jumble of answers from the gathered archaeologists, but in the end it’s decided that Finn will accompany Chirrut and Baze a short way into the tunnel to see what they can see.

“Should we not wait for Krennic?” Baze murmurs so that only Chirrut can hear. His partner wrinkles his nose.

“Really? You’re worried about what _he_ thinks?”

“I just—” Baze begins, but he stops himself. He’s never cared for Krennic’s opinion before. Is it only now, when Chirrut is taking the initiative, that he doubts his partner’s abilities? He glances at Finn, who looks away in a _I’m staying out of this_ sort of way. Then back to Chirrut. Calm, head cocked slightly as if listening for Baze’s answer in the wind. Shame heats the back of his neck. “No, you’re right. Let’s go. Just as long as we’re bringing a flashlight.”

Finn waves at his belt, which is equipped with a great many things, among them a flashlight. “Got you covered.”

The steps feel sturdy under his feet—at least that’s something, Baze thinks. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle as the shadow of the tunnel’s mouth passes over them like the maw of some strange beast, its teeth all crumbled stone and its tongue the work of human hands. The beam of the flashlight shows the walls are dry, bare rock, likely part of a natural system of caves exploited by the monks of old. He just hopes they’re not headed into the crypts.

“Are you frightened?” Chirrut murmurs, turning his face towards him. Finn glances over and slows his steps, staying just a little behind as he shines the light ahead down the broad, curving steps. The air grows colder, smelling musty and damp, and Baze shakes his head.

“Not afraid. Just resigned.”

“Resigned?” Chirrut laughs. “To what?”

 _Resigned to following you into trouble_ , Baze means to say, but the first soft syllable has barely touched his lips when something cracks overhead. Baze whirls to Finn, frozen a few steps back. “Have you put up supports down here?”

“N-n-n-not yet,” Finn stammers—his flashlight judders in his hand, shaking the light against the walls like a storm shaking leaves from their trees. “We should turn back. It’s not stable.”

The walls are solid rock, Baze thinks, the ceiling much the same. So close to the surface, what instability could there be? He jerks his chin. “Come on, let’s go.”

One step forward, his hand fisted in Chirrut’s sleeve. Overhead, the ceiling groans like a woman in labor, threatening to come down on their heads. Two steps. The sandstone is flat and formless under his feet, but Chirrut stumbles, and his cane falls from his grasp, clattering down the stairs into the dark.

“Baze—”

 _Crack_. A chunk of sandstone falls from above as the whole tunnel starts to shake, splitting the staircase between Baze and Finn. The boy stands wide-eyed, paralyzed, his flashlight pointed straight in Baze’s eyes.

“Run,” Baze snaps, dragging Chirrut sideways. Finn stumbles back, falls, and the flashlight drops from his nerveless fingers. Another slab falls, larger than the next, and then sand pours in after it, clouding the light and clogging their lungs. Chirrut tugs on his arm, burying his face in his sleeve, but it’s too late. The whole thing is coming down.

“ _Move!_ ” He throws himself at Chirrut without grace, leaving Finn to fend for himself—the only safe way is down. The stairs seem to crumble beneath his feet, becoming loose gravel, but he shoves Chirrut forward anyway as the weight overhead gives way to dust and rubble.

Then, without warning, his feet find the lip of a sharp drop and they’re both plummeting off the edge into inky blackness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well this just took a turn for the Indiana Jones, didn't it? :D 
> 
> I realize Finn shouldn't be in this timeline probably, but I just couldn't shake the idea of him being a cute, earnest little Order-hired archaeologist who hangs on Chirrut's every word. As always, your comments and kudos are much appreciated!!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chirrut touches things he shouldn't. Baze gets tingly. Finn comes to the rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't sure if this chapter was ready to post but then I decided fuck it (also it's youridiotwriter's bday so I couldn't NOT post today). Tomorrow's chapter may have to be postponed tho, because I am woefully behind in keeping ahead. Thanks for all the support, hopefully y'all won't mind missing a day!

Baze hits the ground almost instantly. His shoulder lands first, and he just barely manages to keep his head from cracking against stone—his belly turns and squeezes like it’s being sucked out of him by gravity’s relentless grip, but as the ground beneath him stays steady, the vertigo passes. And then there’s nothing. Just his own breath in his ears, coarse and panicked, and impenetrable inky blackness pressing in from all sides. He blinks rapidly, but there’s nothing to see, not even the palest shadow of grey in all the black. 

“Chirrut,” he rasps. His arm is wet, he realizes, and when he lays his palm down flat, he can feel a slight trickle of water moving over the rock. He _hopes_ it’s water. He lifts his hand to his mouth and tastes nothing—cold, mineral nothing. Just water. “Chirrut!”

“I’m here.” His voice sounds close, shaken but clear enough. “I’m not hurt.”

Cloth and skin rasp against stone, and Baze feels a damp touch on his cheek. He jerks away instinctively, then falls on him, feeling each part of him, testing for hurts—his head, his cheek, his arms. Chirrut grabs his hand and pushes something into it, something cold and hard and cylindrical. Baze fumbles with it and then his thumb hits a switch and light blooms everywhere.

“The flashlight,” he breathes. 

“It fell near me. Look and see if you can find my cane.” Then Chirrut pushes himself upright and away, arms outstretched. His hand knocks the edge of the lip where they fell. “What is this? Where are we? The stairs…”

Selfishly, Baze shines the light at Chirrut before anything else. In the harsh glow of the flashlight he’s whiter than a ghost, peppered with flecks of dirt and mud from the fall. He’s got a scrape on his chin and his clothes are covered in dust, but he looks hale enough. _Thank the Force._ Baze sweeps the beam higher. Outside the pool of light cast by the flashlight, he can make out only a little. Overhead, too close for his liking, a rocky ceiling drips water from miniature stalactites onto their uncovered heads. The stairs they’d fled down sheer off abruptly at about waist-height, canting sideways at a crazy angle, and higher up he can see the rubble blocking their way back to the surface. 

“The tunnel looks blocked. Come on, let’s see if we can find a way through.”

“What about Finn?” Chirrut asks tersely. He’s already hoisting himself up over the ledge, so Baze follows suit, the light swinging crazily as he moves. His shoulder complains, and his knees, but nothing feels particularly worrisome.

“No sign.” He can’t let himself worry about Finn right now. Chirrut is his first priority. “Oh. Here.” He sees a slender flash of white out of the corner of his eye. “Your cane.” 

Chirrut grabs it from him and feels it for breakage while Baze peruses the rubble. Not even the slightest shred of daylight finds its way through, which is troubling. He has no idea of knowing if Finn survived, or whether or not they could even call for help. He would try shouting, but he doesn’t want to bring any more rubble down on top of them.

“We’re trapped,” he says, more calmly than he feels. “We’ll just have to stick it out, wait until they can get some of this rock shifted—Chirrut? Chirrut!”

“What?” He’s on the edge of the drop-off, tapping along it with his cane. “You said it yourself, we’re trapped. We can’t do anything except wait. I intend to make the most of that time.” He stops as his cane bumps against the far wall and puts his hand out, leaning against the stone. His head is bowed, cocked slightly to one side as if listening for something. “Do you hear that?”

Baze holds his breath to listen. Very faintly he can hear the drip of water, the gritty whisper of sand still sifting down in the aftermath of the cave-in. “Hear what?”

“It’s like… machinery. Or a song. Humming…” Chirrut’s eyes flash opalescent like a cat’s when they catch the light. Baze tilts the flashlight down and ignores the gooseflesh pebbling on his skin. 

“Chirrut, come here.” When he doesn’t immediately move away from the wall, Baze goes to him instead, bracing the flashlight between jaw and shoulder as he cradles Chirrut’s head in his hands. “Did you hit your head when you fell? You’ve got a scrape here.” He touches the tender place on his chin, and holds him tighter when Chirrut tries to pull away. “Chirrut, please. Hold still.”

“I didn’t hit my head,” Chirrut huffs, but he stays in place, allowing Baze to examine him as best he can. “I’m surprised you can’t hear it, too. Or feel it? Put your hand here.” He takes his wrist when Baze doesn’t move, and places it flat on the cold stone wall. 

The rock feels damp and gritty, like the sandstone underfoot and low over their heads. Baze sighs and tries to concentrate. At the very least he might be able to feel the tremors of another imminent rockfall, or perhaps the rescue efforts that are surely underway. But there’s nothing. Nothing but the slimy damp of centuries of the cold below, and the hard grip of Chirrut’s fingers around his wrist. 

He’s about to pull away, frustration on the verge boiling over, but something stops him. Something… _something_. Not a vibration, not quite, but a faint shimmer of feeling, like a distant sound felt through miles and miles of rock. His hand starts to tingle and he yanks it away, rubbing his fingers together distrustfully.

“Did you feel it?” Chirrut asks excitedly. “The song?”

“I felt no song,” Baze growls. “And if I did, it wouldn’t matter. We need to stay put and wait for a rescue, not gallivant off poking at rocks. Who knows what else could fall on our heads while we’re down here.”

Chirrut’s expression darkens and grows mulish, and Baze braces himself for an argument. But, to his surprise, Chirrut only sighs and bows his head. “Very well. But surely it would be prudent to move a little farther away from the cave-in? Clearly this particular area is not very structurally sound.”

His voice is far too innocent for Baze’s liking, but he has to admit the idea makes sense. “All right,” he says grudgingly. “Just a little ways.”

Baze beams the flashlight up ahead and hops down to the lower level where the steps shear away. The tunnel continues on its curve, but the floor is broken up into slabs of rock and hard-packed sand, evidence of past collapses burying the well-preserved staircase that had brought them this far. As they navigate the uneven path, Chirrut holding on to Baze’s arm for added stability, his beam catches on the damp rock face and water gleams back. His toe catches on something and he drops his eyes to the floor.

“Awfully wet down here.”

“Yes. The moisture content in the air is quite dramatic.” Chirrut lifts his nose and sniffs delicately once or twice. “I hope you don’t have a mold allergy, my dear.”

“Not that I know of.” He glances ahead and pauses, jerking Chirrut to a halt alongside him. “Sorry. I thought I saw…”

“What?” Chirrut asks, with more excitement than Baze feels is warranted. “What do you see?”

“Hang on. Over here.” He tugs gently, and Chirrut follows, moving toward the left side of the passageway. The walls are covered in gunk and damp, as Chirrut so astutely observed, but beneath the dark swathes of mold and mud Baze swears he can see shapes. Patterns. He stoops and gathers up a loose stone about the size of his hand, relatively flat on one side, and scrapes it against the wall. 

“Baze!” Chirrut all but yells in his ear. “What are you _doing_?”

“There’s something under the mud—hey!”

“You’ll damage it!” He yanks on Baze’s arm, and the rock goes spinning into the dark, clattering far beyond the range of Baze’s flashlight. 

“I just wanted to see,” Baze mutters, a little embarrassed that he’d been so thoughtless—especially after watching Chirrut pore for _hours_ over the smallest shard of pottery with gloves and a tiny little brush, wisping away dirt. He squints again at the wall and gives a little huff of amazement. “What do you know. It _is_ painted after all.”

He can’t quite tell what it’s supposed to be—vines, maybe? Arms reaching up, laden with flowers? The colors are faded with time and dirt, reduced to shades of brownish-grey, but the shapes are distinct where he’s scraped the black gunk away. The wall is surprisingly well-formed, beneath its clinging veil of muck, too perfectly smooth to be bare rock, with colorful stones and bits of mosaic pressed into the surface to form precise, almost mathematical patterns. Stucco, perhaps, or plaster. Baze runs a careful hand across the surface and inhales. 

“Baze…”

“Feel this, Chirrut. I’m serious.” The tingle is back in the tips of his fingers, and he fancies he can hear a ringing in his ears. He wipes his hand on his shirt and thrusts a finger in his ear to quiet it, but it doesn’t go away. “The stonework here, it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

“Well naturally,” Chirrut grumps, but he, too puts his hand on the wall. And goes very, very still. 

“Chirrut?” When his name garners no response, Baze touches his shoulder. Chirrut jumps, his entire body quivering like it’s been struck with an electric shock, and he snatches his hand away. “Did you feel it?”

Chirrut licks his lips. “Describe the wall to me, Baze. In perfect detail. Please.”

Baze stands back a little and cants the flashlight to one side, avoiding the head-on glare of the reflective damp. “It’s covered in mold and gods-know-what, but there’s definitely some kind of mosaic on it, and paint. Just here it looks like… like vines reaching up, with white flowers blooming—like a tukka plant, but much, much bigger. And the flowers are all reflective, made from pieces of mother-of-pearl, with chips of glass at their centers. Or maybe precious stones. Behind them are red and brown and orange stones, small ones, laid into zigzag patterns and crosses and little stars.”

“The Yllera’ad,” Chirrut sighs. “Incredible.”

“The what?”

“The Yllera’ad, the story of the Whills. It’s an old religious text that was lost in the original destruction of the temple. Until now, we have only found references to it in other texts.” He extends one hand, very slowly, and places it flat against the wall. The width of his palm isn’t quite enough to cover the blooming tukka flower underneath. “The tukka was a sacred plant to the monks. We’re not entirely sure why, but we know that it features heavily in their iconography. Something about a pilgrimage. Carrying the last living bloom across the desert to where the Temple would later stand.”

Baze watches him, too engrossed in the sound of his voice to look at the wall instead. His face is smooth with awe but for a tiny wrinkle between his eyebrows, and as he watches, the wrinkle deepens and Chirrut bows his head. 

“This is… beyond anything I could have dreamed. Baze... “ His breath hitches a little and then he laughs, self-deprecating, and takes his hand away. “I—ouch! What was that?” He curls his fingers inward protectively, and Baze sees a gleam of red left behind at the tukka’s glittering center. 

“All right?”

“Fine. Just a little nick, I should have been more careful.” He holds his hand out for Baze to examine. There’s a small wound on the pad of his middle finger—a droplet of blood wells up and falls to the ground. “The flower… can you look a little closer? That sharpness at the center, what was it?”

“The glass. Or the crystal, I suppose.” He leans close, shining the light directly at it, and blinks rapidly when the reflections dazzle his eyes. The ringing in his ears grows stronger. “It’s like…”

 _Like staring into the sun_ , he means to say, but Chirrut grabs his arm suddenly, dislodging his train of thought. “Baze. Do you smell that?”

“What?” He jerks back from the wall and shakes his head, trying to blink away the spots dancing in front of his eyes, and breathes in deeply, wrinkling his nose at the cavern’s overwhelming funk. At least the stink of it helps dispel the ringing in his ears. “Ugh. I smell nothing except rot and damp.” 

“No… fresh air. Come on, hurry!” 

He drags Baze along, and Baze has no choice but to follow, or loose Chirrut to the darkness that presses all around him. Baze has never been claustrophobic, but he can see how a person might feel that way—the weight of Jedha City sits just a few feet above his head, and growing nearer as the ceiling begins to decline. Soon he has to duck to keep from scraping his head on the rock. But before he can tell Chirrut to stop, they turn a sharp corner and he has to _yank_ Chirrut back lest he walk right over the edge of a tremendous drop. 

“Chirrut!” he barks. But whatever scolding remark had been rising to his lips gets stuck somewhere in his throat and withers away into, “ _Oh_.” No other syllable comes to mind. Awestruck, he sweeps the flashlight out across the great crevasse that has opened at their feet, but the farthest reaches of the beam hardly reach the ground. Instead, the light illuminating the vast space comes from above: a narrow, muted beam from a hole in the ground. The broken end of something—a ruined tower, perhaps?—hangs from the craggy ceiling like a giant’s tooth, and Baze realizes that it’s the end of the brick-lined hole that Chirrut had shown him before. _So close, and yet so far..._

“Baze,” Chirrut breathes, nearly panting with excitement. “Please, _please_ tell me what it is. I can feel the change—the air is so _open_ here...”

“It’s… a cave,” Baze begins haltingly. “Here, come away from the edge, I don’t know how stable it is.” He coaxes them both back a few paces and then switches off the flashlight. “It’s pretty big—how the hell has it been here this whole time, under the city, and no one has noticed? It’s—it’s big enough to hold about half the Consulate, I think, though that’s not much help to you. Um. The martial arts club could fit inside easily—maybe two, three of them. There’s a ledge just here, like the edge of a blast, and it’s a long, long way down…”

He leans forward a little, but the bottom, wherever it is, is hidden in shadow. Chirrut squeezes his hand. “What else? Is there… any structure? Any kind of ruin?”

“There’s an awful lot of rubble. Some remnants of towers and things, maybe. I’m amazed the ground has held up so well—” He breaks off, thinking of the archeologists running to and fro with no idea what lies below their feet. And before that, before the excavation, the park and the handful of rundown apartment buildings that had clustered around the square, always hovering on the edge of being demolished, half of them abandoned to the whims of weather and break-ins. Gods. Just a little too much weight in the right place could have brought it all down, and half the Upper City with it, sliding into a sinkhole that was just waiting for its moment. “We have to tell Director Krennic—they have to get down here, shore this up immediately. If it falls…”

“We’ll tell them,” Chirrut says firmly, squeezing his hand again. “Krennic’s an ass sometimes, but he knows all about this sort of thing.” He sighs. “I’m not looking forward to being told off for exploring before he could have his engineers take a look…”

“You deserve it,” Baze answers without heat. He kisses the back of Chirrut’s hand and hunkers down, still shaken by the enormity of the space. “I wonder what’s down here. Under all this mess.” 

Chirrut hums distractedly in response. He’s got that look on his face, Baze sees briefly before he turns away altogether, like he’s paying attention to something Baze can’t hear or see. He drifts from Baze’s side, not toward the ledge, but to the opposite side of the passageway, dragging his fingertips along the wall. The rock is a little less slimy here, at least, but Baze still wrinkles his nose. 

“I’m not holding your hand until you wash it, now,” he warns, and gets a chuckle. 

“Somehow I’ll survive,” Chirrut murmurs. He follows the wall a bit, cane held out in front of him, and though a cold sweat breaks out under Baze’s arms, he stops when the cane sweeps over the lip and into empty air. 

“Chirrut…”

“It’s all right. I’m not going anywhere.” Chirrut breathes in deep and lets it out slow, getting down on his haunches. He sweeps his free hand through the fine dust on the floor of the tunnel, frowning. “There’s just something…”

“What? Did you drop something?”

“No…” His entire body goes very still suddenly, back hunched over in a perfect gargoyle’s arch. “Oh. There you are.” And he plucks something off the floor, something so small and unremarkable that Baze can’t make it out. He cups it in the palm of his hand a moment, then curls his fingers around it and bows his head. “Thank you for this gift,” he whispers. Baze has a feeling he’s not talking to him. 

Before he can ask what it is he found, and to whom he was directing his thanks, his ears catch a nearby rumble and crack of stone. He jumps to his feet, ready to yank Chirrut’s collar to get him back from the edge, but the rumbling stops and then—voices. 

“They’ve broken through,” he exclaims. Relief swamps him like a bucket of water dumped over his head, and he realizes he’d been more worried than he’d let himself feel. A level head was more useful than being terrified, but now that his brain has given him permission to feel fear, his knees grow weak and his hands shake a little as he pulls Chirrut to his feet. “Come on, let’s go meet them.”

The way back is a great deal shorter than the way forward, a trick of the mind that Baze is well familiar with--he barely spares a second look for the patch of wall they’d uncovered, too eager to taste fresh air on his tongue again. When the rescuers meet them at the ledge where they fell not twenty minutes ago, Finn is at the front, wide-eyed and wielding a new flashlight like a gun he doesn’t know how to carry.

“Easy,” Chirrut laughs as they’re surrounded, swept up by a handful of relieved faces. Krennic’s, Baze notes, is not among them. “We’re fine. Just a little banged up, nothing serious. Right, Baze?”

“Right.” Baze watches him closely as they’re brought through the dispersed rubble of the cave-in and into the light—his face is bland and smiling, with no trace of the intense and focused awe that his voice and face had carried in the passageway. Whatever he’d found has been tucked away somewhere, too, as his hands are empty but for the cane and a palmful of black from the tunnel walls. 

“Dr. Imwe.” Krennic is standing at the mouth of the tunnel as they emerge, arms folded and one toe tapping on the ground like a parent ready to chastise an insolent child. Baze braces himself. 

“Director, please.” Chirrut holds up his dirtied hand, forestalling him. “I will bear whatever lecture you mean to give in mind, but first, you _must_ get struts put in immediately. We found pieces of the Yllera’ad on the walls, perfectly preserved. And there’s a cave down there, intact, with no telling what other treasures lie beneath the rubble.”

Krennic’s pinched expression transforms in stages to boyish eagerness, and in another breath he’s talking with Chirrut a mile a minute, yelling for someone to fetch an engineer. Baze stands back and lets them get on with it, too relieved to be under an open sky again to pay them much mind. But he watches Krennic closely, still—watches for another slip. Before the enthusiasm, before he remembered to play the part of the excited archeologist, Baze saw something on his face he didn’t like. Something perilously close to _greed_. 

///

“I can’t believe you found the Temple!” Jyn exclaims, rubbing her hands together in delight. She’s sitting on the couch in Baze’s living room, wide awake in spite of the late hour, watching as Baze doctors Chirrut’s scrapes with iodine and a cotton ball. “I can’t believe you got _buried alive_.” Her voice drags out, throaty and mysterious, and Baze snorts. 

“No need for dramatics, Jyn-feather. We were only stuck for a few minutes. Ten at most.”

“Fifteen,” Chirrut dismisses him, smiling in spite of how his chin must sting. Baze gives it another good rub with the cotton ball, just to be sure—gods knew what horrible, insidious bacteria had been thriving down in the damp and dark for a hundred years. “It was thrilling, Jyn. When they’ve put up struts and it’s safe, I will make sure you get a chance to come visit the site.”

“Absolutely not,” Baze says, even as Jyn crows with delight. She deflates at his stony expression. 

“Why not? It’ll be safe, Chirrut just said so!”

“Uh-huh. And who’s going to keep an eye on you? Metaphorically speaking. I don’t trust _him_ ,” he pokes his partner gently in the chest, “to not let you wander off and fall down a hole somewhere because you saw something shiny.” 

Jyn’s face darkens. “I’m not a child, Baze. I can mind myself. Please, _please_ can I?”

“You can trust me to look out for her,” Chirrut murmurs to him, brow creasing. “I certainly value her life enough to make sure she’s safe, Baze.”

It’s not that Baze doesn’t trust him—he does. Mostly. But Chirrut’s a different man when he’s at the dig site, swept up in the thrill of discovery. And if he’s honest, visions of Jyn falling into holes and getting stuck in ancient crypts is only half his worry. The other half belongs solely to the fact that the entire thing is overrun with Order scientists, with Krennic at their head like a self-absorbed snake. 

“I don’t want Jyn at the dig site,” he says, low and with finality. “That’s all I have to say on the subject.”

“Ugh! Baze, you’re being so unfair,” Jyn exclaims. She jumps up from the couch, fists balled up at her sides and her face growing red with indignation. “You know I’ll just find a way down there anyway, why even bother?”

Baze studiously does not look at her, instead concentrating on the small cut in the pad of Chirrut’s finger. Embedded with mold, most likely. Idiot man. “Then I will do everything in my power to prevent you. It isn’t safe, Jyn. As your guardian, it’s my duty to keep you from harm, and that’s what I intend to do.” He glances up at her then, at the stubborn set of her lip and the shine of unshed tears in her eyes. She hasn’t cried out of anger in a very long time, and it hurts him to have to see it now, but he can’t. He can’t let her anywhere near the Order if he can prevent it. “I’m sorry. That’s my final answer.”

Jyn looks to Chirrut, perhaps hoping for intercession, but Chirrut is suspiciously silent, lips pressed together and face unmoving. With one last huff of indignation, Jyn turns and stomps out of the room. The slam of her bedroom door seems to echo through the house like the crumble of rock through an underground tunnel, and Baze flinches. 

“Baze,” Chirrut murmurs. 

“No, don’t.”

“I just wanted to say,” Chirrut soothes, “that if you change your mind, she’ll be perfectly safe with me. I’ll enlist Finn’s help to see that she doesn’t wander off.”

Baze sighs. “It’s not that. Fucking hell, Chirrut, you really think I don’t trust you with her? That you’d let her get lost or hurt, just because you’re blind?” He drops Chirrut’s hand abruptly, dismayed, and reaches for a new cotton ball. When he turns back, Chirrut has gathered his hands in his lap and is frowning into empty space. 

“So you lied to her. Either that, or you’re lying to me right now. I’m a little disturbed that I can’t tell which.”

“I _do_ trust you, Chirrut. It’s her that I don’t trust. Not with her own safety, not when there’s excitement to be had. She’d rather have the rush of adrenaline than the safety of stable ground beneath her feet any day. And…” He means to tell him about Krennic, but something stops him. Perhaps the way the two men had been conversing today at the dig, practically talking over themselves in their shared excitement. Perhaps that glimpse at Krennic’s face, twisted and ugly for a split second before he smoothed it over with such ease. No matter how attuned his ears, Chirrut had no way of seeing that expression. No way of understanding Baze’s mistrust. 

“And?” Chirrut prompts when Baze says nothing more. 

“And I don’t want you to bear the burden of responsibility if something happens.” He reaches out, grazing the back of Chirrut’s injured hand with his fingers. Slowly, he unfolds it to Baze’s care, wincing slightly at the sting when he dabs at the scrape with the damp cotton ball. 

“You _are_ her guardian,” Chirrut says at last. He allows Baze to bandage his hand, and even smiles faintly when he leans down to kiss the palm. “I suppose it isn’t up to me. Although it pains me, you know, from a teaching perspective…”

“Now you’re just trying to guilt me into it. Enough.” He pats Chirrut’s thigh and rises. “I’m going to throw these out, I’ll be right back.”

“Wait! Ah, just a moment. Could I borrow some iodine and a cotton ball?”

Baze frowns and sits back down. “Of course, but what for? Did I miss a spot?”

“Not exactly.” With a private smile touching the edges of his lips, Chirrut reaches into his trouser pocket and pulls out…

“A pebble? Is that what you took from the floor of the tunnel?”

“Ah, but not just any pebble, my dear. A cotton ball, please. Wet it first.”

Baze dampens a cotton ball with iodine as instructed and hands it over. He can hardly see what Chirrut is doing, the thing is so small, but when he’s done the cotton ball is brown with dirt. Chirrut beckons. 

“Hold out your hand.”

A moment later, Baze quivers, feeling as if he’s been shocked. He stares at the little piece of crystal in his hand, like one of those at the center of the tukka flower in the tunnel. It’s quite tiny, no bigger than the width of this thumbnail, and so light that if he closed his eyes he wouldn’t even know it was there. Except… there’s something about it. Just a translucent bit of rock, like quartz, with raw, unformed edges and a cloudy center, but the spot on his hand where it lies grows warm, and the tips of his fingers tingle slightly until he flexes them. 

“Do you hear it?” Chirrut whispers. “The song.”

Baze doesn’t know if he would call it a song, exactly. A vibration, perhaps, like feeling a chord being struck two rooms away. Like a deaf man putting his hand on the end of a harpstring to feel the hum as someone else plucks it. “What is it?” he whispers, spellbound. He doesn’t think he could move a muscle if he tried. 

Chirrut smiles and takes his wrist, cupping their hands together. 

“Kyber.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baze floors it. Chirrut gets some dental work done. The cat makes another cameo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning!! This chapter contains some martial arts-related violence, but nothing super graphic. It also contains a temporary POV switch, hopefully it isn't too jarring!

“Kyber?” Baze echoes. The word is vaguely familiar, but he can’t place how.

“Yes. Kyber crystal. Have you not heard of it?” Chirrut shakes his head with surprise. “You’re so well-read, I had thought… well. It is an old word. Very old. Even the oldest texts mention it but rarely.” He turns their joined hands and lets the crystal fall into his waiting palm. As soon as it leaves his skin, Baze can feel the loss—but now that he’s held it, he fancies he can hear the slight ring of its presence in the room, even when Chirrut slips it back into his pocket.

“I’ve never felt anything like that.” He rubbed his thumb over the spot where the crystal had sat. “Like… like it was _alive_.”

“Kyber crystals _are_ alive, in a way. They are conductors of the Force. They carry its power more easily than any other thing in the universe.” His eyes are half-shut as if in a trance, his voice low and monotone. Baze has watched him meditate before, in the early morning when Chirrut rises to greet the sun, and it reminds him of this, of the hum he carries in his chest like a pure and ancient song. “In the old days, it was plentiful. Sacred texts tell us that the monks used kyber crystal for many things—as meditation aids, in their altars and their ceremonies. But I wasn’t sure if any still existed.”

Baze’s mouth is very dry. “That’s what you felt, in the tunnel. The kyber.”

“Yes.” Chirrut takes a breath, shoulders lifting and falling again, and he seems to shake off some of the heavy cling of spiritualism. “I could feel it as we stood on the edge of the stairs—it’s what led me down into the tunnel—and again in the murals of the Yllera’ad. The tukka flowers. You felt it too, then, didn’t you?”

Baze says nothing. There is something strangely addictive about the kyber—he can feel its presence now, even hidden away, can still taste the clarity and awe that had filled his skull when it was in his hand. There was a power there, something he can’t explain, something he’s never really believed in before. He has never mocked Chirrut for his faith, or thought less of him for it—he’s always been a little impressed, in fact, that Chirrut can hold that flame so strongly in his breast when there is no longer a Church to belong to, and all the old believers are lonely creatures stumbling in a dark and unforgiving world.

But this… to feel the Force’s power for himself, even the slightest taste of it…

“It’s dangerous,” he hears himself say. He rubs his hands against his jeans to scrub them clean of the kyber’s elusive song. “You shouldn’t handle it with your bare hands.”

Chirrut’s lips fold into a thin line, but he nods. “Agreed. But I’m more concerned about…” He stops and lowers his voice. “I’m more concerned about the Order. This is not something to be played with and experimented on—it should revered, protected as an artifact.”

“You mean you don’t want to use it?”

“For what purpose?” Chirrut reaches out and Baze meets him halfway, lacing their fingers together. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about working with it. And I don’t—I don’t understand the Force well enough to try, not really.” His voice is strained, like it pains him to admit it, and his grip on Baze tightens until his knuckles flare white. “For all my years of study, I can’t pretend to know everything about the way they lived and worshipped, when the Force was revered in every distant corner of Jedha. When our city was a hub for the faithful, the final stop on a long and arduous pilgrimage.”

“The tukka flowers,” Baze realizes. “In the tunnel. Their centers were made of kyber.”

“Yes.” He bows his head. “I’ve never felt anything… so pure in all my life. There is so much to be gained from this, so much to be learned, I can’t…”

Baze lets him have a few moments to recover himself, and then he says, gently, “Did you tell Krennic about the kyber?”

“I… no.” His nose wrinkles in a little frown. “I’m not sure why. He’s never given me reason to doubt his motivations before. I know he’s affiliated with the Order,” he adds quickly, before Baze can interject. “But this project is funded by the Council. _Solely_ by the Council. There is no mention of the Order in the grant.” His voice hardens, forbidding argument. “I truly believe Krennic has good intentions.”

“But you didn’t tell him what we found.”

“We found mosaics,” Chirrut says without hesitation. “By tomorrow there will be struts put up and we can begin cleaning the walls.”

“And you think Krennic won’t notice the singing crystals everywhere.”

“Krennic isn’t attuned to the Force like I am,” Chirrut says loftily.

Baze snorts. It’s the first time Chirrut has said something about his faith that has struck Baze as irritating, and he can’t pinpoint why. He detangles their hands and sits forward on the couch, nervous energy clustering in his limbs. “Right. Well you don’t see me meditating every day, but I could hear it, too. Or feel it. So what do you make of that?”

Chirrut blinks, face soft with surprise. “I’ve never had any doubts about your sensitivity to the Force, Baze. The starbird on my back is proof enough of that.” He rubs absently at the scrape on his chin, and Baze resists the urge to bat his hand away. “You don’t work to cultivate it like I do, but it’s there. I’ve felt it, sometimes… an energy around you. An aura, if you will.”

Baze huffs his disbelief. “I’ve never been a religious person, Chirrut. You know that.”

“I know it.” He doesn’t upset about it, just comfortably resigned. “The Force does not require your belief in order to exist, Baze.”

“No. Your faith is enough for that, I suppose.”

Chirrut’s effervescence seems to dim a little. Feeling bad, Baze reaches out for him, lays a hand over his knee. Chirrut sighs. “I don’t understand. How can you feel the energy of the kyber crystal and not believe the Force exists?”

“Oh, I believe it exists. I just don’t think it… moves in me, or whatever.” Just the thought is a little bit eerie. He’s no monk, not a faithful worshipper like Chirrut. The Force has no business taking notice of him. “I’m a simple man—I always have been. I prefer to believe in that.” He takes a breath, meaning to stop there, but something in Chirrut’s face makes him barrel onward. “There’s no mysterious energy guiding my actions. Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve achieved—or not achieved—has been because of _me_. I can accept the consequences of my own actions, good or bad, without pointing to some divine power to cover my ass.”

Chirrut’s lips grow thin and taut, but Baze refuses to feel guilty for expressing his opinion. It’s not the first time they’ve “debated” the Force’s veracity; Chirrut knows his opinion on the subject. They have long since agreed to disagree on certain points. But why, _why_ does Baze feel as if he’s betrayed something, someone? Why does his gut twist with guilt just for speaking his mind?

“I think,” Chirrut says quietly, after a little while, “I’d best be getting home.”

Baze winces. “Chirrut…”

“I have to pick Echo up from her sitter before it gets too late. And I should at least _try_ to get some sleep before tomorrow. No doubt it will be another twelve-hour day.” With measured, precise movements to match his measured, precise voice, Chirrut stands and collects his cane, which is only a little the worse for the day’s misadventures.

Baze sits on the couch for a long time after he’s gone, watching the clock on the wall slowly tick over to midnight. At first he seethes with irritation— _why_ does everything have to return to the Force? Why does his every thought and action have to be born of some made-up, maybe-real presence that no one even believes in anymore? And then, hard on the heels of his frustration, the guilt returns.

_Zama-shiwo is a lost art, and yet here you are. It’s very serendipitous, isn’t it?_

Chirrut’s smile blooms in his memory, a little energetic thrill hiding behind his well-mannered mask. He had been so careful when they first met, skirting the edges of his faith, only daring to speak openly about it when Baze encouraged him. He has never pressed his beliefs on Baze, never insisted he join him in his practices. This, tonight, was the first suggestion that Chirrut felt the Force moving around Baze in some tangible way. It was a little alarming, yes, but given the day’s discoveries it was hardly out of line. Baze groans and scrubs his face, trying to pull his tangled thoughts into some sort of order.

Then an idea strikes. Months ago, when the dig was first finalized, Baze had snitched a copy of Chirrut’s thesis from his apartment. It was one of the few copies that wasn’t solely written in Braille, and Chirrut had pretended not to notice that it was missing. Baze has read bits and pieces of it here and there—per academic regulations, the language is dense and difficult to wade through, and Baze is rarely in the right mood to sit down and translate the obscure text. But tonight feels like the night for it. Sleep is too elusive, even though he’s exhausted, so instead he pads through the house on quiet feet and enters the study. His drawing board takes up most of the tiny space, but a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf stands against one wall, stuffed to the gills with all sorts of things—books, mainly, but also DVDs and knick-knacks and some of Jyn’s high school projects. He runs his fingers along the middle shelf where he remembers putting it last, but only finds a gap between the books where Chirrut’s thesis should sit. Gone. _Like Chirrut is gone._

 _Stop being melodramatic_ , Baze tells himself irritably, but it’s hard to take his own advice. Between the late hour and the sour note of their parting, he feels bereft.

It’s late, late enough that the trams have stopped running. Chirrut is surely home by now, may even be in bed with a book or his tablet, listening to the lab reports from the day before. He might be asleep, but Baze texts him anyway.

_[Let me know you got home safe.]_

It’s all he can bring himself to say. It’s not an apology, really—he’s not even sure he owes one, or whether this disagreement will just fade and fall into the backdrop of their lives, soon forgotten. Or maybe the sentiment will linger underneath the surface, souring what they’ve built. He sits at his drawing table and stares at the large sheet still pinned to it from his last project. Jyn has requested another tattoo to add to the handful she already has, and Baze has been struggling over the design for weeks. She wants a mechanical flower spreading its gears and wires out like petals, but all Baze can seem to birth from his pencil are feathers.

His phone rings in his hand and he startles, dropping it. It slides across the wooden floor and he chases after it on hands and knees, just barely rescuing it from going under the bookshelf, and he gets it to his ear right before the call is dropped.

“Hello?”

“Baze.” Chirrut, of course. He hadn’t even checked the caller ID, but he _knew…_ “Baze, I’m sorry, I’m sorry to call you in the middle of the night—”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he soothes, alarmed by the panic in Chirrut’s choked whisper. “What’s wrong?”

“I think someone is in my house.”

Baze catches his breath. _And I’m halfway across the city. Fuck._ “Are you at home?”

“I’m on the street, I’m walking back toward the station but the trams have stopped—I went to my door, but I could hear something—I don’t know. I don’t know, maybe I’m going insane—”

“What about Echo?” Baze asks quickly, already moving to the door. “Is she with you?”

“She—she is. I just picked her up from her sitter and took her around the block.” Baze can hear him swallow even over the sound of his keys jingling as he swipes them from the rack. “She growled when we got to the bottom of the stairs. I had to drag her just to get up to the veranda… Baze, what should I do? Should I call the police?”

“Yes. Do that right now, and then call me back immediately. I’m on my way over. Hang on—I’m going to give you the precinct number to call, okay? It’s technically not your district, but just tell them Baze Malbus told you to call and it will be fine.”

“Right,” Chirrut says. He still sounds shaken, but Baze’s carefully modulated calm has taken away some of the tightness in his voice. “Baze, what if I’m being followed? I can’t tell, I can’t turn around and look—”

“Chirrut. Shh, sh. It’s fine. It’s probably some jackass kid breaking in, and the police will get their prints and it’ll be fine. Just keep walking to the station and wait for me there.”

As soon as Chirrut agrees and they hang up, Baze texts him the number to call and tiptoes down the hall to check on Jyn. Her door is left slightly ajar, and when he peers through it, he can make out the lump of her body under the bedding. The cat is curled up at the foot of the bed, a fat brown blur illuminated by the light pollution bleeding through the half-open window. He looks up at the creak of Baze’s weight on the floorboards and Baze relaxes. Gullie’s no watchdog, but he’s mean enough to everyone but Jyn that Baze feels safe leaving them alone.

He’s pulling out of the driveway and into the deserted street when his phone rings again. He swipes the speaker on with his thumb. “Chirrut, all right?”

“I’ve been better,” Chirrut replies, even softer than before. “I think I’m being followed.”

 _Shit_. Baze puts a little more pressure on the gas pedal and ignores a stop sign as he turns onto the main road to Upper Jedha. “Okay. Just stay on the phone with me, you’ll be all right. You called the station?”

“Yes. They’re sending a squad car.”

“Good. Are you near the station yet?”

“I should be, yes. I’m not sure what help it will be, though—the trams aren’t running at this time of night, no one will be around.”

“It will be well-lit,” Baze says firmly. He glances at the clock on his dashboard. Almost one in the morning. He’s about five minutes from the Old Jedha tramway, if he doesn’t get pulled over for driving twenty over the limit. If he does he’ll flash his old badge and hope it’s enough. “I’m almost there, Chirrut.”

“I’m at the station,” comes the terse reply. His voice is so quiet now that Baze has to strain to hear him over the hum of his tires on the road. “I’m sorry, Baze, I can’t put this off.”

“Put—put what off? Chirrut, don’t hang up, if they know you’re on the phone they won’t—”

 _Click_.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Baze spits, and glances at his spedometer. He’s already pushing it—might as well push it a little more.

///

Chirrut can hear them breathing. That’s the first giveaway. There’s only two of them, he thinks, and they’re not really bothering to hide their presence, scuffing their feet now as they close in. He sets his phone face-up on the bench beside him and strokes his thumb casually across the screen, clearing his throat to cover the tinny voice that says, _now recording audio._

“Gentlemen,” he says into the empty night. A bit of a shot in the dark, true, but the odds of a woman stalking a man at this time of night aren’t very good.

There’s a perfectly silent pause in which they hold their breath—are they really so surprised? Do they really think he couldn’t hear them? He gives a bland smile, teeth tucked out of sight behind his lips. His chances of getting out of this unscathed have just doubled.

“We know what you have.” The voice is clipped, military, no-nonsense. Just a man doing his job, however unpleasant. Chirrut doubts that _harassing a blind man_ ranks very high on this person’s list of foul deeds. “Hand it over, and there doesn’t have to be trouble.”

Almost there, Baze had said. Chirrut wonders how long he can drag this out. It would be nice if he had something with a little more heft than his flimsy cane—Echo, for instance, or even a nice sharp stick. But he would rather not put Echo in danger if he can help it.

(A small, harmless lie, telling Baze that she was with him. Trying to allay his worry. But no, she was with her sitter overnight—safer that way.)

“I’m afraid I don’t do well with _cryptic_ ,” Chirrut says calmly. “I’m a professor, you know. I thrive on detail.”

There’s a faint shift of air, and the bench creaks as something leans against it. Chirrut turns his head slightly to his left side, ears pricked for the slightest sound—the man has his foot propped up, he thinks. Leaning into his space a little, by the smell of his cigarette-dank clothes and minty breath. His blood boils. _If they smoked in my apartment…_

“You’re a smart man, Dr. Îmwe,” the first man says in a cajoling tone. His voice is much nearer than before, left and slightly above him. He guessed rightly, then. Chirrut tries to judge the general whereabouts of the man’s groin and makes a mental note to strike there first. “I’m sure we don’t need to explain to you what it is we’re looking for.”

“Explain? What I’d like you to _explain_ is why you feel the need to pester an old blind man out for an evening stroll.”

There’s an ugly snort in front of him and a little to the right, and Chirrut smells rather than hears the frustrated exhale on his left. _I knew there were two of you._

“We’re not pestering, Dr. Îmwe. We’re asking. _Politely_.”

“Was it polite to break into my home?” Chirrut snaps, too irritated to keep up the charade. “I hope you didn’t break anything. Or touch anything. Some of my artifacts are quite fragile.”

“Artifacts?” snickers a new voice, younger and uglier than the first, less disciplined. “Hate to break it to you, old man, but your house is full of garbage. A little more now than it was before, maybe.”

“Shut up,” the first man snaps, as Chirrut’s heart sinks. Insurance can’t repair broken pottery or revive upended plants. He hopes they didn’t touch the cat skull in his bedroom—it’s an old favorite. “I told you, we’re doing this my way first. I can be reasonable,” he adds, apparently directing this saccharine falsehood at Chirrut. “Just give us the crystal, and we’ll be on our way.”

 _The crystal._ Chirrut feels himself go still like a rabbit in a trap, trying to pawn its pursuers off by playing dead; but traps are laid by more cunning predators than foxes. He takes in a deep breath— _I am one with the Force_ —and lets it out slow. _The Force is with me._ “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he says, calmly. And then he strikes.

Elbow out to the left—he misses the groin but lands a decent blow to the gut, and he can hear bile rise in the man’s throat as the other gives a yell and surges forward. Bracing himself against the back of the bench, he lashes out with both feet and catches his attacker hard in his chest, throwing him back onto the unforgiving cement of the tram platform. He stands in the same movement, using his momentum to his advantage, and ducks a clumsy swing from the first man. His fist whistles through the air as it passes overhead and Chirrut can’t help but laugh.

“Oh, dear! How clumsy of me. You’ll have to do better than that.”

The kyber burns a hole in his pocket as he moves left again, blocking a strike with his arm and striking back in the same movement, knuckles connecting with a hard cheekbone. Crystalline energy seems to fill him up like water poured into a glass—every sense is hyperextended. He can smell the metal tram tracks, the burnt-rubber of shoes skidding on cement. He can hear the limping scrape of the second man dragging himself to his feet for another go. When a fist connects to his jaw, he spits out blood and smiles through copper-flavored teeth at the little exclamation of disgust when his expectorate hits bare skin.

Something tells him to duck, suddenly, so he does, and charges forward to ram the first man in the stomach again, this time with his head. He can’t quite remember where the edge of the platform lies in relation to him, but he makes an educated guess and leans back for a kick. His foot meets with the relatively tender part of the man’s inner thigh, and he hears him go down in a heap on the concrete.

An arm wraps around his throat from behind, unforgiving as iron. Chirrut fumbles with it, digging in his fingers, but his grip falters at the punch to his solar plexus. He convulses, gags for breath. _Focus. I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me—_

Hands to forearm, fingers into claws, twisting. The second man shrieks and lets go. Chirrut falls to hands and knees and tries to breathe. _Now would be a good time, Baze. I am one with the Force…_

A split second of sixth sense has him rolling to the side, but a booted foot still connects with his ribs just hard enough to hurt. He expels hot air and drags in cold, willing himself up. Hands grab at him again, this time focusing on his arms, and though he twists and snarls and kicks out with his feet, they restrain him long enough for a good clout to the head. His ears ring and he spits out more blood.

Time stretches and slows like taffy. He manages to hook his foot around someone’s ankle and drop them to the ground, but in the next moment he’s flat on his back and there’s a hand digging unkindly into his pocket, a foot on his windpipe keeping him down. Then, many moments later, his ears pop open like he’s reached the peak of a particularly steep and arduous mountain. He can breathe again, and there’s someone pawing at his clothes.

“Chirrut—Chirrut! Can you hear me?”

_Baze… oh thank the Force…_

“I am one with the Force,” he mumbles. His jaw is sore, and when he turns his head to spit, a tooth lands on the concrete with a little _tik_ sound. “And the Force…” He can smell the fear rolling off Baze in waves, overpowering the lingering aroma of his shampoo. He’d showered after the incident in the tunnels—Chirrut hadn’t. He flexes his hands and wonders if there’s kyber dust still beneath his fingernails. “Baze,” he chokes, and heat stings his eyes. “They took. Baze, they took it…”

“Shhhh. Chirrut, you stupid, brave…” His voice breaks and devolves into mumbling, peppered liberally with swearwords, and Chirrut feels safe enough, for now, to close his eyes.

///

Baze sits with him while he gives his statement to the police. He doesn’t know the kid, but he’s not from one of the precincts now caught up in DC Phasma’s iron grip, so he gives them all the information he can. It isn’t much. When he pulled up to the tram station and threw himself out of the car, it was only just in time to catch blurry faces and the glimpse of drab grey plainclothes sprinting in the other direction. And Chirrut, sprawled on the cement with a bruised and bloodied face like a broken doll.

They don’t go back to Chirrut’s, after—it’s cordoned off as a crime scene, and there are already people on site dusting for prints amidst the wreckage. Chirrut, stone-faced, doesn’t react when the cop gives him a shaky, apologetic rundown of the situation. Instead he turns to Baze and says, quite calmly, “I suppose we’re done here, then?”

So they go home. Baze doesn’t press for details of what happened, and Chirrut doesn’t volunteer them, but he can put the pieces together anyway. Chirrut’s apartment was raided by Order thugs, and when they couldn’t find what they were after, they went for _him_. Baze has no idea how they knew about the kyber, or what they wanted it for, and he honestly doesn’t care. He just wants Chirrut safe and whole, and he takes it as a strict, near-religious duty meant for him and him alone.

“I’m coming with you to the dig tomorrow,” he says later as they lay side by side in bed together. “Since I know nothing I say will prevent you from going.”

There’s only silence for a little while. Baze wonders if he’s fallen asleep, but then Chirrut stirs and whispers, “This isn’t your fault.”

“It is. It fucking _is_ , Chirrut. I mouthed off with some selfish bullshit, I upset you. You left because of me. If you had been here, you would have been safe.”

“It wouldn’t have stopped them breaking into my apartment.”

“Hang the apartment. I mean—just, it would have been easier to bear if I knew you were safe. But you got hurt, and I should’ve been able to prevent it.”

Chirrut reaches for his hand atop the covers and laces their fingers together. “They wouldn’t have stopped until they got what they were after. Baze. It’s fine. It’s done. And I don’t have any answers, I don’t know _why_ , but we’ll figure it out tomorrow. All right?”

Baze scowls at the ceiling, safe in the knowledge that Chirrut won’t be able to see it. “I’m still coming with you. I can’t—I just need to.”

“Okay.” Chirrut rubs his thumb over the back of his hand and Baze tries to calm down. Chirrut is safe now. They are both safe. The house is dark and still, every bolt latched, every window locked—except Jyn’s, he recalls hazily. He pushes himself up from the mattress and swings his legs off the bed. “Baze? Where are you going?”

“Just to check on Jyn’s room.” He touches the side of Chirrut’s face that isn’t swollen and tender, soothing him. “I’ll be right back.”

Chirrut settles back against the pillows and Baze leaves the room, finding his way by memory and by the faint orange-y glow of Jedha City at night. He’s a little surprised they didn’t wake Jyn coming in so late. They tried to be quiet, but it’s an old building, and it’s hard to move through it undetected.

He comes to her door and peeks in. The window is still ajar. Moving as quietly as he can, he tiptoes over and reaches across the bed to close it. Gullie is still at the foot, sprawled across it like a king, and he only flicks an ear when Baze gets close. Odd. He usually raises a little more of a fuss when someone gets too close to Jyn, even Baze. She brought him with her when she first came to live with him, and his loyalty is to her and her alone, even if he puts up with Baze’s presence.

The window whispers as it slides closed, and Baze turns the lock. And pauses. The cat’s tail flicks against Jyn’s rumpled duvet, and Baze looks harder at it, at the bulky shape of it where it drapes over Jyn’s sleeping form. The bedding is perfectly still. There is no sound of breathing. A little chill runs through him.

“Jyn?”

Baze reaches up and pulls back the duvet’s edge, and underneath finds only pillows and bunched-up clothes.

Jyn is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cat's name was suggested by youridiotwriter aka quantumghosts, and there will definitely be a spinoff oneshot where Bodhi gets on Gullie's bad side and also learns he's allergic to cats. (bc the Bor Gullet... get it....)
> 
> I'm not sure if there will be one or two more chapters because I haven't written them yet, but one way or another this story will hopefully be finished by Sunday. Thank you so much to everyone who's commented and kudos'ed, it means a lot!!
> 
> ALSO omg I keep forgetting to add this, kerriss on tumblr did [this](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/158615007815/kerriss-spirit-assassin-manip-17-inspired-by) beautiful manip of the hospital scene from chapter 6! I will also put it in the notes for that chapter.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jyn robs a grave. Baze gets the cuffs. Chirrut takes charge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have noticed, we added two chapters... I'm laughing at myself for thinking I could wrap this up in just one xD

Maz picks up on the third ring. “Baze Malbus, you’d better have a bloody good reason for calling me at four in the bloody fucking morning.” Her voice is crisp and distinct in spite of her irritation, which tells him she was likely still awake—but he’s too worried to feel guilty.

“Maz, Jyn is missing. I don’t know for how long. Since this evening at the earliest.” He thinks of her temper tantrum when he refused to allow her to visit the dig site, and buries his face in his free hand. “Have you heard anything? Seen her?”

Maz is quiet for a moment. “Not yet. But I will get in contact with some people. Have you called her friends?”

“They aren’t picking up. I don’t have her girlfriend’s number, but she’s the Councilman’s daughter, I wouldn’t feel comfortable just ringing her up in the middle of the night…”

Maz tsks softly on the other end of the line. “It’s all right, dear man. I know someone who can help. You just sit tight and let me do the legwork.”

Baze’s muscles turn to water with relief. “Maz, I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“Hush! I’ve been waiting years to be able to pay you back for the gift of my life, Captain Malbus, and I won’t hear another word. Have you called the station?”

“No. I… I’ve had enough police contact for one night, I think. Long story,” he adds when she makes a sound of inquiry. “Chirrut got into some trouble.”

“Hmph. Well that I can’t help you with.” The connection frazzles a little, and he can hear her getting out of bed and clicking loudly on her computer. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll call you back.”

“Thanks, Maz. I owe you.” He hangs up before she can refute it and rests his head in his hands. _Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck…_

“Baze?”

Chirrut stands in the door to the kitchen, wrapped in Baze’s bathrobe against the chill of the small hours. When Baze doesn’t reply, he comes further into the room on hesitant feet, reaching out for the edge of the table as if he doesn’t quite remember where it stands. It twists something visceral in Baze’s chest to see his face like this, blanched in shadow and smeared with bruises, his lip split, moving with the tenderness of someone with a cracked rib. He shuts his eyes and turns away.

“Baze. What’s wrong?” Chirrut’s hand finds his shoulder and then pats along it to his face. Baze is too tired to modulate his expression. “Why are you out of bed?”

“Jyn is missing,” he says hoarsely. “I went to check on her, to make sure her window was shut and locked, and… she was gone.”

Chirrut inhales and straightens his back, even though it has to hurt—the lines that frame his mouth grow deeper, but he doesn’t complain. “When? Do you have any idea?”

“Sometime between when she stormed out and half an hour ago.” Moving stiffly, like a felled tree caught reluctantly in a river’s insistent current, he leans into Chirrut’s comforting hands. “I can’t get ahold of Bodhi or Cass.”

“Who was on the phone just now? The police?”

“No—no, not really. An old friend. Maz.” He gives a weak laugh to remember that Chirrut knows her, too. “We served in the force together, back in the day. Different department, same precinct. She still has a lot of her old contacts from her time with the criminal investigations unit. And she knows Jyn almost as well as I do.” He takes a breath, tries to slow the panic rising in his chest. “She’s going to do some digging. But I don’t know what help it’s going to be, I don’t know where she would have gone—”

“Come,” Chirrut interrupts, firm in the face of Baze’s wavering psyche. “Let’s go back to her room. Maybe we can find something that will point us in the right direction.”

“There’s no makeshift rope hanging out her window, if that’s what you mean,” he says, but he lets Chirrut chivvy him out of the kitchen chair and down the hall. Jyn’s room is still dark and undisturbed, the duvet thrown aside from when he’d dumped it on the floor, hoping against hope that she was somewhere under all the stuffing. He flicks a light on and winces. “There’s a bit of a mess…”

“It’s fine. Look around. See if she left a note.”

Baze feels stupid for not thinking of that before, but Jyn has never really been the type to leave notes when she hares off on one of her schemes. Baze has grown complacent. It’s been months since she snuck out in the middle of the night. If he’s honest, he thought she was past this.

Chirrut moves to the bed, hands extended in lieu of his cane, while Baze rifles through the detritus on her desk. Nothing. Then there’s an angry hiss, and he turns to see Chirrut jerking away from Gullie’s batting paw. “Dammit, cat, get out of here.” In a fit of sudden fury, he swats the cat off the bed and he goes, thumping to the ground and lumbering out the door, tail twitching madly. “Sorry. That’s Gullie, Jyn’s pet monster.”

“It’s fine,” Chirrut smiles, lying through his teeth. The sharp step back he’d taken probably hurt his ribs, but he brushes it off when Baze tries to check on him. “Did you find anything yet?”

Baze opens his mouth to tell him _no_ , and stops. Poking out of the crumpled bedding, right where Gullie had been lying, is the corner of a book. He grabs for it and groans when the cover is revealed. _A Studied History of the Guardians of the Whills and Their Temple, Dr. Chirrut Îmwe, PhD._ “Oh, for… _Jyn_.”

“What? What is it?”

“Your bloody _thesis_.” There’s a folded-over page near the front of the book, and he fumbles it open to see the chapter stamped in bold capitals at the top of the page. At any other time Baze would scold her for treating a book— _Chirrut’s_ book—so disrespectfully, but now all he feels is relief. “She was reading about kyber, Chirrut. She must have overheard us in the living room.”

“The dig.” Chirrut grips his arm. “She’s gone to the excavation.”

“How do you know?” Baze demands, but he has no real intention of fighting him on it—it’s the only lead they have. “Nevermind. You stay here, I’m going to—”

“Excuse me? You’re going to go play hero while I sit and twiddle my thumbs?” Chirrut’s eyebrows slam down like two steel doors. “I don’t think so.”

“Chirrut, you’re _injured_.” _I feel like we’ve had this conversation before_ , he thinks tiredly. But as he recalls, the outcome then had been quite pleasant. He doesn’t have enough good karma racked up to earn the same a second time. “What are you going to do if things go badly? I can’t protect you _and_ Jyn at the same time.”

“I don’t care. I’m coming anyway. Call Maz again, tell her where we’re going. I’ll try and get ahold of Cassian. _You_ get changed, and make some coffee. We’re going to need it.”

Baze watches him flounce out of the room in a swirl of borrowed terrycloth, and bows his head. He’ll fucking lose it if anything happens to Chirrut, but for the moment he’s just glad to have him at his side. Somehow their odds seem better together.

///

The sky is a pale grey wash as Baze drives the winding streets of Upper Jedha to the excavation site. The city is still half-asleep—like him, it seems to move in slow motion, like something underwater whose details can’t quite be deciphered. Chirrut is silent in the seat beside him. It almost feels like a dream but for the headache pounding behind his eyes, the nervous energy he can feel gathering under his skin. _Jyn, where are you?_

He parks in the tiny lot beside the temporary lab where he always does when he visits Chirrut onsite, and shuts off the car. But before he can climb out, Chirrut’s hand comes down on his arm, stopping him.

“Baze. Something isn’t right.”

Maybe it’s the late hour—the early hour, now—or maybe it’s the worry fogging his mind, but the idea of mistrusting Chirrut doesn’t even occur to him. Baze inhales and sits back in his seat, eyes flicking over what little he can see outside the window. “What’s wrong?”

Darkness still clings to the city like a cloak, but the floodlights stationed around the dig site are on like they always are at night, illuminating the parking lot and the fiberglass shell of the laboratory. There are no lights on inside, but there are cars in the lot, and something seems to rumble underfoot, hidden from view by the sharp drop-off of the excavation site.

“We aren’t alone here,” Chirrut says, utterly still. His eyes are wide and opalescent in the ugly spilloff from the floodlights. A chill grips Baze by the nape of the neck. He feels as if he’s staring not at the man he loves, but at a stranger.

“Jyn?” Baze asks in a dead whisper. He can’t tear his eyes from Chirrut’s face. The kyber is gone, ripped from Chirrut by petty thugs, but its power doesn’t seem to have left him—instead it fills him up, riding in the cant of his voice and the grip of his hand on Baze’s arm, untethered. _The Force_ , Baze thinks, and he isn’t sure whether to feel awe or terror. Maybe a little of both would be appropriate.

“Jyn isn’t here. But something else…” All at once he inhales, sharp and horrified, and he fumbles with the latch of the door without giving heed to his bruised knuckles. “Something terrible is about to happen.”

The spell is temporarily broken—Baze shakes his head to clear it and climbs out of the car. Already Chirrut is limping toward the edge of the dig site, using his cane more for support than for guidance. Baze, as usual, has no choice but to follow.

Chirrut, uncharacteristically, reaches the top of the scaffolding stairs and stops there, waiting for Baze to catch up. Or perhaps he was stilled by some supersensory warning, a push from the Force to go no further, because when Baze stands abreast of him he can’t contain the muffled sound of dismay that escapes him at what he sees.

The Order has been busy. And Baze can think of no other door at which to lay this accusation—it _must_ be the Order. Somehow, in the space of one night, the excavation site has been transformed. Baze scrambles, trying to piece together his memories of what it looked like before: a sunken part of the city, cordoned off into precise sections, with archaeologists running to and fro busily, bending their heads together over patches of dirt, hunkering down to sweep away layers and layers of sand from the bits and pieces of the Temple they’d uncovered. A little beehive, active in the warmth of the late-summer sun, full of discovery and promise.

But now. Now the orderly excavation has been gutted. Yards and yards of discarded twine lay in scattered piles like bizarre fish beached by an unkind ocean, and metal struts spear the earth, the shattered ribs of a prehistoric beast laid bare for perusal. At the center, the ground splits open like a black wound, attended by the looming shadow of a construction bulldozer. In place of the small army of scientists and researchers are a handful of people, all dressed in grey—even from here, in the harsh, unkind glare of the floodlights, Baze can make out their military gear, the heavy artillery some of them carry. They cluster at the hole’s charred lip, peering down, perhaps conferring on the vastness of their find. _Of **our** find_ , Baze corrects himself, as quiet rage bubbles up from deep within. This was _their_ discovery, his and Chirrut’s, and now the Order is here in the dead of night, laying waste.

“Baze,” Chirrut whispers, gripping his sleeve. In the bleak white light, his face is hard to look at, mottled with red and purple bruising, broken blood vessels clustered thickly beneath his fragile skin. “What is it?”

Before Baze can answer, the bulldozer starts up with a deep rumble and its long, jointed arm moves into action. It reaches the toothed bucket high, almost to the top lip of the escarpment, and then _down_. Baze grits his teeth to watch as it slams into the ground and a little more crumbles away into the dark abyss. _Jyn could be down there_ , he realizes with sudden horror, and his stomach turns violently at the thought.

“ _Baze_ ,” Chirrut demands. “Tell me!”

“They’re tearing it open,” he growls, aching, furious, _helpless_. “They’re destroying it.”

“No!” The echo of his cry is shrill above the dozer’s relentless grumbling, and several of the grey-capped heads turn to watch as Chirrut flies down the stairs without bothering to use his cane. Baze’s belly drops, terrified, as he stumbles at the bottom and falls to one knee—but then he’s up again, limping as fast as he can toward the pit with his cane sweeping wildly ahead of him.

“Fool,” Baze spits, and follows.

By the time he reaches the bottom of the stairs, Chirrut is already being warned off by one of the Order guards—physically, but his gun well out of the way, just grabbing him by the shoulder and shoving to keep him back. Chirrut is screaming at him over the grind of the bulldozer, and doesn’t even pause for breath when Baze grabs him from behind, dragging him away a few paces.

“Chirrut, stop! Stop, just stop—”

“I’m _Head Researcher_ ,” Chirrut snarls, spittle flying as the greyshirts remobilize in the face of his fury. “You can’t do this! Where is Director Krennic? I demand to speak to him immediately—”

“He is here.”

The wary guardsmen stand aside, chins up and toes together, and Baze feels his stomach sink all the way down to his shoes as Krennic himself materializes from the cluster of officers. He’s wearing grey, too, but a crisper, paler shade, with barred epaulettes and a matching officer’s cap hiding his distinctive salt-and-pepper hair. At the sound of his voice, all the fight drains from Chirrut’s body, and Baze finds himself supporting the majority of his weight as Director Krennic stands before them, eyes like chips of ice, a small, satisfied smile playing about his knife-blade mouth.

“Doctor Îmwe. I must confess some surprise at seeing you here.” Krennic lifts a gloved hand, and a few whispered orders are passed down the line. A moment later, the bulldozer grinds to a halt, leaving them in perfect silence, punctuated by the distant clatter of rock falling deep into the pit’s cavernous belly. “I had heard you ran into some… trouble, earlier tonight.”

Chirrut clenches his fists and stands upright, quivering. “You. _You_ sent those men to attack me.”

“Attack? Oh dear, were they a little rough?” He sounds utterly concerned by this, as if he can’t see the violent evidence slammed into Chirrut’s face, wrenched into the way he holds himself like there’s a blade perpetually buried between his ribs. His eyes drift past Chirrut’s furious form to Baze, and he smirks when their eyes meet. “I assure you, my orders were to ask you _nicely_.”

“Then maybe you should vet your employees with a little more care, Director,” Chirrut snaps back. He’s no longer flailing with rage, but Baze can feel it rolling off him in waves, a dark, disturbing energy that seems to surround him like a vapor. “Explain this to me. What do you want with the kyber?”

Krennic flashes an unkind smile, and Baze’s blood boils to know that it’s solely for his benefit. “Ah. That’s the million-credit question, isn’t it? Did you really think you could hide it from me? The tunnel was full of it, just waiting for harvest. Like grapes sitting fat and tender on the vine. And that was only the beginning. Who knows how much of it lies beneath the remains of the Temple, untouched for all these years?”

“ _What_ ,” Chirrut repeats, low and vehement, “ _do you want with the kyber_?”

“My dear Dr. Îmwe, that would be telling. But I assure you, my superiors are _very_ pleased with my—ahem, _your_ find. Oh, come now, I’m not entirely unreasonable. It _was_ your very own misfortune in falling down a hole that brought all of this to light. I’ll make sure you’re adequately compensated. The Order has already been informed, of course—you can expect a check in the mail quite soon, I should think. And well-deserved.” He’s still grinning, all teeth, like a shark scenting blood in the water. “It is you we have to thank for this, after all. Pressuring the Council year after year, making our case for us. And that shot in the market square last year. So unfortunate—but someone had to play the martyr. And you played it _so well_.”

Baze is moving before he even registers making the conscious decision to do so. He sidesteps Chirrut and lunges forward, unarmed, mouth open in a soundless snarl with fire in his fists. But he doesn’t even make it to Krennic before there’s a guard there, and another, wrestling him to the ground and shoving his face into the cold dirt. The unforgiving jab of a gun barrel bruises him in the back of his neck and he goes still.

“Tsk, tsk.” Krennic’s steel-capped boots move into his line of sight and stand there, tapping impatiently. Baze fights for breath and stares past them, out across the gutted remnants of the excavation, the darkened lab perched on top of the drop-off. “How rude.”

He can’t quite see the sky, he can’t twist his neck enough for that. But there’s something moving by the lab—a shape, a shadow. A figure, two, three. His chest grows tight with fear. The glare of the floodlights blinds him a little, but he knows that lanky gait, that familiar gesture as the figure in the lead reaches up as if to push away their hair from their face. _Jyn._

Baze jerks where he lies, overwhelmed with relief and then, hard on its heels, terror. He has to keep the Order’s attention here, on him. _Don’t look up. Please don’t look up._ He turns his head and works up a little saliva in the bowl of his mouth. “Get fucked,” he says, somewhat inelegantly, and spits at Krennic’s boot.

He gets no visible reaction. Just a longsuffering sigh and Krennic’s bored drawl intoning, “You should keep a shorter leash on your guide dog, Dr. Îmwe. I don’t think he’s been fully trained.”

Chirrut moves, Baze thinks, but the cold snap of the gun’s safety being released stops him in his tracks. “Please,” he hears him whisper. All the anger has been bleached from his voice, turning it into a worn, threaded thing, like the hollow drag of wind through the bone-chimes hung at the door of a dead man’s home. “Please don’t hurt him. Krennic… Director, _please_. Please. I’ll do anything.”

There’s a long, agonized moment of silence. And then, improbably… laughter. A low, grating chuckle from Krennic that scrapes across Baze’s nerves like a live wire implanted in his skin. The gun eases back a little, and he lets himself breathe.

“What a touching scene!” Krennic sighs when he’s had his fill of laughing. “My heart bleeds, truly. But we can’t have bad press, can we?” He steps away and so do the guards pinning Baze down. In the next moment, Chirrut is there, throwing himself to his knees in the dirt and running his hands over Baze, flighty, terrified, heedless of his own injuries. “All right, get them out of here. I grow bored of this. I want everything to be perfect for the General’s arrival.”

Baze is dragged to his feet, arms wrenched forcibly behind his back and wrists cuffed together. He goes without a fight. Maybe struggling and swearing would keep their attention on him, but he doesn’t need Jyn watching her guardian being clubbed with the butt end of a rifle—and that’s just the best case scenario. Worst case scenario, they shoot him point blank, and that’s not something she’ll likely ever recover from.

They don’t handcuff Chirrut, but it’s hardly a blessing. Instead they treat him roughly, dragging him up the stairs by both elbows, showing no emotion when he winces and cries out in pain. Baze grits his teeth and tries not to react. Instead, his eyes flick up, following the jagged line of the excavation’s edge. But Jyn and her friends are nowhere to be seen. _Small mercies_.

They bypass his car entirely and load them both into the back of an armored vehicle. Inside, a thick metal grate separates them from the two guards in the front. Baze’s range of movement is limited, with his hands cuffed behind his back, but he leans toward Chirrut and whispers, “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

“Shut up,” one of the guards says, sounding bored already. Or perhaps they all sounded like that. Perhaps they really are brainwashed, and their voices only reflect the blank grey slates of their minds.

Chirrut’s face is hard to make out in the dark, even with the rippling glow of the passing streetlights as they’re driven away from the dig site. But Baze can hear him, though he’s obviously trying to hide it—the choked, wet sounds of someone trying to stifle their sobs.

“Chirrut,” he breathes, even softer than before. If the guards hear him, they don’t give any sign, and he leans even closer, even when Chirrut turns his face away and curls his shoulders inward like he’s trying to protect a raw and open wound carved into his chest. “Chirrut, love. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”

There is nothing to do then but wait. Wait and wonder. They didn’t bother blindfolding him, and he’s not sure whether that’s a good sign or not. Dawn is breaking over the city as they drive, painting everything in shades of fawn and muted, buttery rose. Jedha is always beautiful first thing in the morning, but it’s hard to appreciate it now. Every breath is painful, and not because of an injury, or because of the awkward set of his arms—it’s because of Chirrut, hunched in the corner of the vehicle, shivering like a broken thing.

_Someone had to play the martyr. And you played it so well…_

Baze shuts his eyes. He was a fool for going along with Chirrut’s insistence that Krennic could be trusted. A fool for thinking that the bullet was just an accident, for not doing more to stand up to the Order’s slow encroaching on Jedha’s rights. A fool to leave the police force. All this time he could have been _doing something_ , working against them from the inside, taking the Order head on. Instead he’s only this—an unarmed tattoo artist working in a slum shop in a worn-down part of the city, turning a blind eye to the conflicts brewing in Jedha’s veins and underbelly. _Useless._

After an undetermined amount of time, the SUV pulls to a stop. Baze opens his eyes as they open the door nearest him, and at first he can’t believe his eyes. They’re parked outside his house. On the first floor, the dim sum shop is still locked, the _closed_ sign hanging in the front door, but he can see the owner moving about, wiping tables and preparing to open for the day. Utterly, stupidly normal.

Rough hands on his wrists drag his eyes away, and a moment later he’s being freed. He rubs his hands and works the life back into his shoulders, uncomprehending as they chivvy him and Chirrut out onto the sidewalk.

“I don’t understand,” he blurts. The guards have uninteresting faces, nothing memorable about them at all, nothing to distinguish one from the other apart from a vaguely different shade of hair, maybe the slight roundness of a chin. The one who drove them here gives a bored shrug and pushes something into Baze’s hand. A thumb drive.

“Director’s orders. No bad press, he said. There’s something on that for him.” He jerks his thumb to Chirrut, who is standing alone on the sidewalk with his head bowed and shoulders hunched. He’s lost his cane again, and instead has his hands folded in front of his sternum, almost as if he’s praying, or asking for alms. “Make sure he gets it.”

They get back in the armored vehicle and drive away. Around them, the city is waking up, but Baze feels untethered from it all, an island floating in the middle of a lonely sea. He looks at the thumb drive and feels an intense urge to hurl it into the nearby drain. Instead he tucks it into his pocket and puts a hand on Chirrut’s shoulder.

“Come on. Let’s go home.”

///

Jyn comes home about an hour later. She is alone, wearing dirty jeans and her favorite jacket, covered in dust and her fingers littered with scrapes like she’d gone climbing without chalk or harness. She comes in through the sliding kitchen door, having climbed the fire escape up to their tiny balcony, and stops to see Baze sitting motionless, alone, at the kitchen table.

“Baze?” she whispers. She seems afraid to breathe. “You’re okay?”

Baze stirs himself and nods, because even if he’s not _okay_ , he’s unhurt, and he knows that’s what she really meant to ask. “Where have you been?” he asks, sounding tired rather than stern. He doesn’t have the energy to manage _stern_.

“I’m—I’m sorry I left, there was something I had to do. Something I had to find.” She touches her collarbone, hidden by her thick wool shirt. Her sturdy boots have tracked dirt onto the tile floor, but Baze decides he doesn’t really care. He reaches for her and she comes, kneeling at his feet and throwing her arms around his middle with a little sniff. “I thought—I saw, we saw them take you away. You and—” She stops and rears back to look at his face, and his fingers catch and drag at her hair where he’s been detangling it from around her face. “Where is Chirrut?”

“Bedroom. Sleeping.” Maybe. Chirrut had only asked, in a raw voice, to be left alone for a little while. Baze had swallowed his pain and his pride, and done as he requested. “What about your friends?”

“They went back to Cassian’s dorm room. They’re fine.” She twists her fingers together nervously and rises, finds a seat in the chair beside his. “I needed their help to get…”

Baze gives her a hard look. He’s exhausted, scoured out on the inside, but there’s enough of him left to be disappointed, and he lets it show on his face until she has to bow her head to escape it. “Jyn. I fail to see what could be so deeply, desperately important that you couldn’t tell me where you were going. I thought—” He stops, chokes back the anger, tries to modulate it into something kinder. “I thought you had gone to the dig. I thought you were down in that hole, with broken limbs, buried alive by the fucking _First Order_.”

Jyn flinches, in spite of the careful tone of his voice. He tries to feel bad, and can’t. Until she becomes a parent, if she ever does, she cannot know the gripping fear that image had held over him, like a hangman’s noose ready to drop. Until then, this is all he can do to make her _see_.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. She touches her neck again, and this time he sees the simple black cord peeking out of her shirt, the bump of something on her breastbone. A necklace? Jyn has never been the sort to wear jewelry, and the dissonance of seeing it now helps break the despair hanging over him.

“What is that?” He nods to her hand where it hovers over her shirt. “Was it worth scaring me half to death over?”

She sniffles a bit, and chances a brief, hopeful smile. “Maybe. It really depends on Chirrut.” When he only raises his eyebrows in a weary _go on_ gesture, she takes a deep breath and pulls the cord over her head. The necklace swings free in the air between them, catching the light like a mirror, and Baze inhales at the electric charge that seems to conflate the air. _Kyber_.

“Where did you get that?”

“Do you remember,” she says slowly, pushing up her left sleeve, “the necklace my mother used to wear? A little crystal, shaped like a ginbird feather.” She holds out her left forearm, exposing the small, simple _zama-shiwo_ design carved there. “I used to play with it when I was a little girl. But after she died, I… I never saw it again. Papa laid it to rest with her, in the shrine he built over her tomb. Saw took me there once. He said I should learn what it meant, that she was never coming back.” Her voice quivers just a little, but her eyes are resolute, forbidding interruption. “I overheard you, earlier—I wanted to know what you found. And then I read Chirrut’s book, and the part about the kyber… I wasn’t sure if this was the real thing. I didn’t know if I could feel it, feel its energy like you and Chirrut can. But I thought… what if it _was_ real? What if my memories of it were so strong, so clear, _because_ it was kyber?”

“You broke into your mother’s tomb for this?” is all Baze can think to say. He takes the cord from her loose grip and slips it back over her head, letting the crystal rest over her heart. She ducks her head, hiding her watery smile, and he clasps the nape of her neck, drawing her in to rest their foreheads together. “She would be greatly amused by that, I’m sure.”

“I needed to know,” she says helplessly, closing her fist around the crystal. Some of its energy dissipates, muted by her grip, but rather than turning into nothingness it seems to fill her up instead, using her as a vessel. _The Force of others_ , Chirrut has sometimes called it, and now Baze understands why.

“I saw what happened at the dig,” she continues quietly. “I thought they were going to shoot you.”

“I know. I did too, for a second there. But they didn’t.” He sighs and clasps her shoulder. “There’s nothing more they can take away from us—from him. I suppose he’s no longer a threat.”

Her grey eyes fly open, boring directly into his. “What do you mean? He _can’t_ stop fighting now.” She sits up straight and the fire in her face is almost tangible. “Dad, _we_ can’t stop fighting. That’s what the Order wants. Bodhi—” She stops a moment, then forges on, forehead creased and anxious. “Bo doesn’t know what they want it for, exactly, but it’s not good. It isn’t just to sell it and make a lot of money. He never got very high up in the ranks before he served his time and was able to leave for college, but even then he says there were rumors. We _cannot_ let this stand.”

“Jyn…”

But she’s already on her feet. Mulish, stubborn, alight with righteous fury, she storms through the house and into the bedroom, Baze right on her heels.

“Jyn, don’t…!”

“Chirrut,” she says, and then recoils a little as the sight of Chirrut’s face. He stirs on the bed and turns toward Jyn, and Baze is reminded, quite forcibly, that she has no idea what happened to him, no idea the hellish night they’ve been through.

But… “Jyn, my dear,” Chirrut whispers, a little half-smile touching his abused face. “You’re all right.”

“Chirrut,” she tries again. She approaches the side of the bed and takes his hand, tangling their fingers together. “I have something for you.”

“Yes… I know.” He can feel the kyber, of course, probably even more intensely than Baze can. But he only looks more tired than before. “I appreciate the gesture, Jyn, but you must keep it. Keep it hidden. You aren’t safe as long as you wear that crystal around your neck.”

“But—” she stammers, confused. “I wanted you to have it. I want you to have faith again. To _fight_. We can’t let them win, Chirrut, we can’t let them have this.”

“Jyn,” Chirrut says softly. “They’ve already won. There is nothing to fight. There is no battle, no war. It’s over.”

“It’s not over. It’s not! Baze, tell him.” She whirls, eyes wet and dark and wild with pent-up emotion. “Tell him it isn’t over. We can still fight this.”

“Jyn.” Baze comes close, putting a hand to the small of her back. “We need to let Chirrut rest, now.”

Her mouth crumples up, and she leans her forehead against his chest. “It isn’t fair,” she chokes.

“I know, Jyn-feather.” He looks at Chirrut over the top of her head, laying back down against the pillows, his face a colorful map on which he can read the events of the past few hours. Baze shuts his eyes—he is so, so tired. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been waiting forrrrrreverrrrrrrr to write krennic's reveal, I hope I did it justice. ALSO just to clarify in case anyone was alarmed, Jyn didn't rob her mother's _casket_ , she broke into the little shrine above where Lyra is buried. Which is also kinda disrespectful but she is her mother's daughter, so....
> 
> Also, I don't think this will be done by sunday as previously projected lol, I'm aiming for an every-other-day update for the next two chapters. So let's go with that :)


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baze overcomes his fear. Chirrut prays. Jyn storms the castle.

Jyn can’t sit still. The house is too quiet—if she dropped a pin on the floor, she fancies it would clang louder than a bell in the utter silence. Even Gullie seems to be infected by the pall, curled up inside her clean laundry basket at the foot of her bed.

She leans back in her desk chair and stares out the window without really seeing. The day is a murky grey after dawn’s initial brilliance, and the low clouds make it seem later than it is. She’d slept a little, earlier, exhausted after a busy night and a good cry, but now she feels wide awake and dry-eyed, suspended in a weird kind of limbo where time distorts and slows, and the sun never seems to bother setting.

There’s a text on her phone waiting to be answered, from Bodhi. _[How’s your dad?]_ She doesn’t know how to answer. Tired? Alive? Sleeping? All true—except for the last one, maybe, but she _hopes_ it’s true, because he could use the rest. But none of those answers feel adequate. Baze looks like he feels on the inside how Chirrut looks on the outside, and she doesn’t know how to reconcile it. He’s always been strong and stoic, always ready with a joke or a smart remark to lift her spirits, always looking at her with softness in his gaze even when he was angry with her. He is everything Saw wasn’t. Gentle. Quiet. Slow-moving, but not slow- _thinking_ , a deep and ancient river whose currents prefer the slow and steady path to one of swift, violent retribution.

But something has thrown him off his course, now, and Jyn feels cut adrift. She drags his hands through her hair and tugs, trying… trying. She doesn’t know. Trying to _wake up_ , to think of something that will fix this. Baze has always been the one to fix things, even when Jyn didn’t deserve it. She doesn’t know how, but this is something _she_ needs to fix for _him_.

 _[not good]_ , she types back, pushing back from the desk. _[I need to do something, but I don’t know what.]_

 _[don’t do anything without us]_ , Bodhi replies, and she grins.

_[wouldn’t dream of it xx]_

First she checks on Baze. Their door is left ajar, so she tiptoes up to it and peeks through. They’re both asleep after all, thank goodness, Chirrut on his back on the right side and Baze curled up facing him on the left, one enormous hand resting on the mattress between them. Even in sleep they look troubled. Baze is frowning and mumbling something under his breath, and Chirrut’s face… Jyn blinks back the stinging in her eyes and backs away. Baze had given her a brief rundown of what had happened before he retired for bed, and looking at him now makes her want to strangle every Order officer she sees. Starting with fucking _Krennic_.

But as much as she wants to put on her big-girl boots and go stomping over to the Consulate to bang some heads together, she knows it’s never going to work. She can’t be loud and angry right now, she can’t show weakness. She has to be smart about this. Closing their door gently, she retreats back down the hall and heads to the kitchen to brainstorm.

She puts a pot of coffee on and hops up to sit on the counter while it bubbles in the background, scrolling through her phone. There is no mention on social media or in the news of the Order’s blatant takeover of the dig site, but that’s no surprise. As far as the public is concerned, there has been no change in leadership. She answers a few texts—Leia, asking why Luke’s best friend had called her in the middle of the night asking where her girlfriend was; and Maz, who had sent a veritable essay on not scaring her father like that again—and puts her phone away to try and concentrate, fingering the feather-shaped crystal that now hangs around her neck.

 _Sorry Mum_ , she thinks. She scuffs her sock feet against the cupboards and wonders if the heat she feels in the crystal’s center comes from her own body, or from something more mystical. She doesn’t know if all of it is real, what Chirrut wrote about in his thesis, but _part_ of it must be, or Baze wouldn’t have startled the way he did when she pulled it out of her shirt. The Order wouldn’t be gutting the remains of the Temple right now, if it were just a pretty rock.

The coffee is almost done when something on the kitchen table catches her eye. A black thumb drive. She frowns—had it been there before, when she first came in to find Baze sitting by himself? She can’t recall. Her mind had been on other things. Now she hops to the floor and scoops it up, examining it from all corners. There’s no serial number or logo on it, and when she pops off the cap, the USB underneath looks perfectly ordinary. But she _knows_ she’s never seen it before, and Baze isn’t really the type to use thumb drives… or any technology at all if he can help it. He only owns a smartphone because Jyn bullied him into it, and he only keeps it because it makes it easier to communicate with Chirrut. She and Bodhi take care of all the tech-related stuff at the tattoo shop—Baze probably doesn’t even know what a thumb drive _is_.

 _Okay, that’s probably unfair,_ she allows, recapping it. Then she stops and pops it open again. There, just barely catching the light, someone has written their initials on the inside. She takes it to the sliding glass door for a bit of natural light and peers closer.

_J. L. E._

Her heart stops. Those are _her_ initials. But she’s never seen this thing before in her life, she’d swear it—the drives she uses for school and for her own projects are cheap, flimsy things picked up at the corner store. This thing has weight to it, substance, like it’s carrying something important. It could be carrying a virus, she supposes, but she has enough faith in her coding skills and the anti-malware on her computer to resist whatever it is. Alight with curiosity, she pours herself a cup of coffee and takes it with her to the bedroom.

Her computer is asleep, but it blips awake at the touch of a button. She switches to the bigger monitor and closes all extraneous programs before putting the thumb drive in the USB port. And waits.

Suddenly the screen goes dark. She jumps a little, cursing herself for falling prey to whatever trap had been laid. But then a white dot appears in the center of the screen, blinking… growing closer. It opens into a square, and inside the square a little animation plays, just white lines on a black background, like a demo presentation she might put together for Mr. So’s class. Belatedly she reaches for her headphones, and jumps when her father’s voice pours through, low and steady and a little bit detached, but _him_.

The demo is brief, only a few minutes, and when it’s over Jyn picks up her phone and dials Leia’s number. A few rings later it picks up.

“Jyn? You okay?”

“Babe… I have something your dad needs to see.” She clicks her mouse to replay the demo reel and sits back in her chair. “ASAP.”

///

Baze wakes up to a silent house. A bleary glance at his phone reveals the time, two forty-six in the afternoon, but it means nothing to his sluggish brain. Staying up all night and sleeping all day is a habit he hasn’t indulged in since before the police academy, and his forty-something bones creak in protest at his recent activities as he slips out of bed and pads to the bathroom.

He’s on his way back when he sees the paper taped to Jyn’s door. He pulls it down, a jolt of adrenaline surging through his system.

_[Dad. Check your voicemail. I left you a message. -Jyn]_

His phone is still in the bedroom. He retrieves it as quietly as he can, and Chirrut doesn’t even stir as he leaves the bedroom and goes to sit at the kitchen table to listen to Jyn’s message.

_Dad—I don’t know where it came from, but the thumb drive you left on the kitchen table was from Papa. I don’t know who else could have sent it. It had my initials on the inside, so I looked at it, and it’s a presentation about something the First Order is building. A weapon of some kind, it’s what Bodhi was telling me about. I don’t know what it is, exactly, or what they’re using it for, but it’s going to be big. And we’re going to stop it. If you want to see it, I left a copy of the demo on my desktop. Just double-click the black and white icon, and it will play._

There’s a pause, and at first he thinks the message is over, but then her voice comes through again, stronger and more determined than before.

_We’re going to the dig, all of us—there’s going to be a protest. Come when you can. And… and tell Chirrut we’re still fighting._

Baze breathes deep through the lump in his throat. Somehow, in spite of everything, he’s done something right. “Lyra would be proud of you,” he whispers, and he presses open the door to her room and sits at the computer.

Not even five minutes later, he’s bending over the bed, shaking Chirrut awake with a careful hand to his shoulder. “Chirrut. Chirrut, love, wake up.”

He come awake with a snuffling sound, and winces as all his pains and aches come back to the fore of his consciousness. “Baze…?”

“I’m sorry to wake you, but there’s something you have to hear.” Baze helps him sit up and presses a cup of tea into his hands. “The two guards that dropped us off, they’re part of the Order but I think they were working for _Galen_ , not Krennic. Galen Erso, Jyn’s father.”

Chirrut nods slowly, still sluggish from sleep. “I remember.”

“They handed me a flash drive, said to make sure you got it. I left it on the kitchen table without looking, but Jyn watched it, and it’s from her father. Something about the Order using the kyber to build a weapon.”

“A weapon.” Chirrut’s words are a distant echo, faded and soft. His brow furrows and he sets the tea aside, sitting forward. “What kind of weapon?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t say. And the video, or whatever it is—it’s all over my head, but it looks bad. Whatever the First Order is planning… it’s bad.”

He doesn’t have the vocabulary to explain what he saw, but Chirrut doesn’t mock him for it. “The Temple was destroyed by a weapon,” he says slowly, “something built by the Empire, back when they controlled almost the entire planet of Jedha. They wanted to destroy our faith, to make us forget. And now the Order follows in its footsteps, centuries later…”

“But _why_?” Baze asks. “They’ve already won. There is nothing left to take from us. We know nothing of our ancestors, of their religion. Hardly anything,” he amends, but Chirrut is shaking his head.

“The Empire used kyber to make that weapon. They _must_ have. It’s the only thing powerful enough to channel so much destructive force without shattering. And now the Order wants more of it. I don’t know what they intend to do with it, but you’re right. _Jyn_ is right. They must be stopped.” He gets out of bed, moving carefully around his bruised ribs, and pulls at his borrowed pyjamas. “Help me change. We need to go back to the dig.”

“Jyn is there already. She said something about a protest.” Baze finds Chirrut’s clothes from the day before, dirty but better-fitting than anything Baze could lend him, and passes them over. “The Council needs to be told about this.”

Chirrut grins humorlessly and starts to dress. “They will be.”

/

They can tell that something is going on long before they reach the dig. They take the tram because Baze’s car is still parked up by the lab, and almost as soon as they pass through the inner walls to Upper Jedha, the view outside the windows is one of chaos. Baze narrates as best he can in a low voice, bending so that Chirrut can hear him where he sits on one of the courtesy benches for pregnant and disabled people, but the scene is almost impossible to describe.

People are _everywhere._ Cars are parked in places they shouldn’t be or just abandoned in the street as their owners flood the roads and sidewalks and parkways, all streaming uphill toward the Consulate. Here and there, darting amongst the crowd, Baze can see young people, some of whom he recognizes from the tattoo parlor, passing out flyers and hastily-scribbled messages like some kind of secret code that has been unleashed upon the city. And the closer they get to the Consulate and the dig site, the slower the tram goes, until it’s crawling along the tracks, blowing its futile whistle to no avail.

“The city is on fire,” Chirrut breathes, and he’s smiling through the chaos of bruises on his face. “Jyn has spread the word. The people will not be silenced.”

“Come on,” Baze says when the tram finally stops altogether. “We’re close. Let’s walk.”

Chirrut nods and stands, lacing their arms together without hesitation.

Together, they walk uphill. The crowd around them is like a benevolent flood, pushing them along at a steady pace. Baze manages to snag a flyer as it swirls in the air past his face, and he pulls Chirrut out of the main current to a park bench where he can focus on the words stamped in bold red letters on the page.

_[THE FIRST ORDER WANTS TO DESTROY OUR HISTORY AND USE IT AS A WEAPON AGAINST US. RESIST!]_

The words frame the image of a crystal shooting a beam of light down onto the stylized city skyline. Bodhi’s work, undeniably—Baze would recognize his clever hand anywhere. Below the image is a hyperlink that reads, simply, _[http://deathst.ar]._ Baze shakes his head, incredulous, proud. “Chirrut, she’s done it. She put it on the web, and now everyone can see… everyone can know the truth.”

Chirrut grips his hand. “You’ve done this, Baze. You raised her, made her proud of her heritage. Proud to be of Jedha.” His eyes are wet with unshed tears, but not tears of sorrow. “Let’s go. There’s still work to do.”

They reach the dig site with a little maneuvering, Baze leading Chirrut through the crush of people to the fore where riot police in Order colors struggle to keep them back. Jyn has evaded them somehow and is standing on the scaffolding, yelling a call and response at the top of her lungs through a megaphone, flanked by Bodhi and Cassian and a few others Baze doesn’t recognize. As soon as she catches sight of him she jumps and waves, and the crowd jumps with her, elated.

Baze waves back, the flyer still clutched in his grip, but the sight of the riot police have reminded him why they’re here, what they’re really fighting against. He remembers watching Chirrut being shot, the “accidental” bullet that sparked a city into flame, and he is afraid.

“Come down!” he shouts, cupping his free hand to his mouth.

The flyer whips away in the wind and is caught up, trampled by the feet of the crowd pressing all around. There’s no way she can hear him above the noise, but she shakes her head at his gesturing and holds her megaphone high. Cassian grabs it and bellows, “We will not be silenced!” into the roar of the crowd.

Underfoot, the earth groans. Baze grabs for Chirrut, already clinging to his arm, and a ripple of consternation passes through the crowd. Chirrut turns his face skyward. “They’re going to bring it down.”

Fear grips him, and he swallows it back, tries to find the shade of Captain Malbus deep inside. It’s hard to do with the vibration of the ground beneath their feet. On the scaffolding high above their heads, Jyn and her friends grab onto poles just to keep their balance, and the megaphone drops from Cassian’s hand, spiraling all the way down to the bottom of the cliff below.

“JYN!” Baze shouts, as the excited din begins to fade. “Jyn, come down!” He gestures as widely as he can, sweeping his arm above the crowd, but she shakes her head and points behind him.

“Baze.” Chirrut shakes him, dragging his eyes away from where Jyn is perilously perched at the top. “Baze, _look_.”

He turns and the clamor seems to dim as the armored tank fills his vision, encroaching inexorably into the crowd. People part for it like lemmings, scrambling to get out of the way, pushing at each other. Behind it comes an even larger excavator, armored in yellow and black, with a mining shovel attached and a low, sturdy dump truck trundling behind. Both of them have wheels higher than Baze’s head, and are flanked by First Order guards wearing riot gear. People scatter at the sight of them, cowed by the enormity of their machines, and Baze feels his heart sink. The city can’t stand against this. It never could. It doesn’t matter how loud they shout, the Order’s ears are deaf to the cries of the people.

As the billowing crowd pushes them closer to the edge of the cliff, still guarded heavily by greyshirts, Baze can see that they’ve been busy. A sloping earthen path has been carved down the face of the escarpment to give the construction vehicles easy access, and a sturdier metal scaffolding has been put up at the edges of the gaping hole they cut into the earth, supported by thicker struts and cables. It looks like some kind of burial ground for ancient metal ships, now exposed by Krennic’s digging machines.

At the top of the scaffolding, Jyn lets out a defiant shout and begins sliding down to ground level. A few of the greyshirts move to intercept her, but they’re impeded by their guns and their riot shields, and they can’t navigate the scaffolding as well. Baze shouts, moving toward them, but more shield slam together, taking their place, and he has to jerk back or risk getting a bloodied nose, or worse.

“Jyn, stop!”

“What is it? What is she doing?” Chirrut asks desperately. He looks disordered and lost, surrounded by so much noise, by the screams of alarm and the intensifying rumble of the mining vehicles as they approach. The mysticism of the Force, real or imagined, has deserted him.

“She’s on the ground—Bodhi is with her, and Cassian.” There are a few others, wearing flaming orange and rust-gold, Jedha’s colors, but he doesn’t know their names. Except... “Oh, gods. The Councilman’s daughter.”

“Leia,” Chirrut breathes, face crumpling.

“They’re forming a chain. In front of the ramp down…” His voice feels dry and thin in his mouth, like his throat is closing up with sand. “Down in the dig. A human shield.”

Chirrut grips his hand. “We can’t let them stand alone.”

“No.” Baze lifts his head and scans the dissolving crowd, the line of riot police beginning to part to let the tank and the mining vehicles through. At the far edge of the scaffolding, right where the cliff face plummets three stories down, there’s a metal ladder not being guarded by police. It looks frail to his eye, but it will serve. He grabs Chirrut’s hand and gives him a squeeze. “Come on. Keep your head down, and follow me.”

Chirrut doesn’t ask questions, following blindly—literally—as Baze fights the current of the scrambling crowd to the edge of the cliff. In all the confusion it’s easy to swing himself onto the ladder without catching the attention of the police, and he guides Chirrut after him, trying not to think about how many of those men and women he’s trained, now wearing Order grey over their precinct badges. _Brainwashed_. Jyn’s accusatory tone echoes in his mind as he skims down the ladder as fast as he can, Chirrut’s feet perpetually in his face. He almost gets a few teeth knocked out as the entire structure shakes, and he grabs his ankle to stop and stabilize him.

“How far are we from the ground?” Chirrut yells over his shoulder.

Baze peers between his feet. The earth seems to wave like a heaving ocean about ten feet down, and he’s not sure whether it’s vertigo or the construction vehicles beginning their rampage. He shuts his eyes and calls back, “Just a little bit farther.”

It feels like an eternity before they reach the ground, but it can only have been a minute or two—the escort tank and the enormous mining vehicles are still working their way down the dirt ramp, poised like vulturous silhouettes against the sky. Chirrut hops to the ground off the last rung and grabs his hand again. “Quickly. Before we’re stopped.”

The ground is too level under their feet. Was it only yesterday that Chirrut had brought him to the dig, so excited over his lumps of earth and petrified sand, cordoned off by twine and stakes? It feels like a lifetime ago. The path before them now is clear, mowed down to a flat, hard-packed surface by the weight of the bulldozer still sitting on the other side of the excavation, and they race across it hand-in-hand without stopping until they reach the edge of the pit. And Jyn.

“You came!” She breaks the chain of people to throw her arms around his neck, and Baze catches her up, burying his face in her dust-scented hair.

“Of course I came. I only wish I’d gotten here sooner.” He sets her down and cups her face in his hands, fierce and proud and flushed with determination. “You should have told me you were going. I would have come with you.”

“I couldn’t. You looked like you needed your rest.” She grins, irrepressible. “I knew you’d get here in time, anyway. The Force brought you.” She tugs the necklace out of her shirt, and somewhere close by, Chirrut laughs.

“It’s an insane plan. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, I know.” She tosses her head defiantly. “Kay said so, about a hundred times. But we’re not leaving, not until they do.”

She points, and Baze turns to watch as the tank lumbers closer, the excavator close behind. He counts about twenty-five people strung out in front of the snaggletoothed hole, hands joined together—a frail and feeble barrier against the Order’s machines. Even so, he falls in beside her, Chirrut on his left linking hands with Bodhi. On Jyn’s right is Leia, dressed all in white with her long, dark hair loose and flowing down her back, and then Cassian, grinning like an adrenaline junkie ready for the next hit. Mr. So, a little older than the others but dour and determined. Luke, Leia’s twin brother, and a young man Baze vaguely recognizes as a regular from Maz’s pub, a shaggy, indeterminable breed of dog pressed up against his leg. And then Maz herself, teeth flashing white in welcome against her dark skin, and on and on, faces he doesn’t recognize, names he doesn’t know, all standing together because of the girl at his side. No—not a girl any longer. A woman. The woman who calls him _Dad_.

The tank has reached the bottom of the ramp, but it keeps coming, chewing up the distance until it stops, quite suddenly and with an enormous grate of metal, midway between them and the tenuous scaffolding. Up above on the cliff’s edge, the riot police struggle to hold back the mob as they rally, pushing to see the scene unfold, but Baze’s eyes are straight ahead. Watching, wary, as the top opens and two figures descend onto the hard-packed earth: Krennic, dressed in crisp white that stands out like sun-bleached bones against the sand, and another Baze doesn’t recognize. Grey-clad, tall, his face worn and sunken with age like old leather, sour and distasteful. He wears the bars of high rank on his uniform, and Baze recalls Krennic’s last words to them the night before. _The General has arrived._

And yet it’s Krennic, not the mysterious General, who steps a little bit forward and raises his voice to address the resistance. “While admirable, your little act of rebellion will not impede the forward march of progress. Most of you are young, and reckless.” His eyes flicker over Baze and Chirrut, Maz, Kay, and his mouth does something supremely unflattering. “I assure you, a day will come when you look back on this and laugh at yourselves for your foolishness. Stand aside. You are trespassing on government property, and will be removed by force if necessary.”

“Never!”

The shout rings across the dig site, shrill and unafraid—but it did not come from Jyn. Baze turns his head to see Bodhi standing apart from the chain, front and center with his fists clenched and his eyes spitting fire to belie his cracking voice. “We will not back down! We will not bow to you, Order _scum_.” He kicks at the dry earth underfoot, and a chunk of rock goes spinning across the empty space and tumbles to a stop near Krennic’s pristine white boots. Krennic bares his teeth and reaches into his coat, enraged, but a gentle throat-clearing from behind him stays his hand.

“Director Krennic,” the General intones, his voice very nearly a bored drawl. “I appreciate your efforts, but I fear they are fruitless. They clearly refuse to be cowed.” He lifts his hand in a _come-hither_ gesture, and behind him, the tank rumbles to life. “If they are so determined, let them stay. We will see how long they hold out against the _forward march of progress_.”

Chirrut grabs forcibly for Bodhi’s hand and holds him tightly as the two men turn away. “Stay,” he murmurs, and his voice is almost lost under the groan of the tank as it turns and grinds along parallel to the hole to make way for the excavator. “We are stronger together.”

Baze isn’t so sure about that. The mining vehicles look even bigger from this vantage point, and when he glances behind him, there’s only a foot or so of space before the drop. Still, he stands his ground. Jyn’s hand in his right, and Chirrut’s in his left, both with a firm, unyielding clasp that he returns with all his might. _Stronger together. Oh, Force protect us…_

“I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me,” Chirrut mutters at his side. “I am one with the Force and the Force is with me. I am one with the Force…” Over and over again, a rippling mantra that fills Baze’s ears and his heart with some unnameable emotion. The words slur together as the excavator looms closer, so high that the driver in his cab is invisible, just as they are invisible to him. Cold sweat breaks out on his back as he thinks about the long, long fall in the dark just a few paces behind. The excavator closes in—above them, the cliff is lined with people, no longer struggling, just watching, frozen, spellbound by the horrible tableau playing out beneath their feet. _Are they really going to watch us die?_ Baze wonders, but he cannot be surprised by it. People have always been slow to stand in the way of disaster. He can count on one hand the number of times someone intervened in a mugging or attempted assault during his time as a police officer, and now the scene is playing out again, on a much larger scale.

 _I am one with the Force. The Force is with me._ Baze mouths the words silently in concert with Chirrut’s mantra. He can hear Bodhi saying it too, he thinks, but on his other side Jyn is silent and unafraid, staring down the advancing machine with her chin high and her grey eyes calm and flat as slate. As courageous as her mother, facing down the same people who took Lyra’s life in cold blood. Baze shuts his eyes as the shadow of the excavator falls over his face. No one here deserves to die, but he’ll be damned if he lets them face it alone.

“STOP!”

At first he thinks he’s imagined it, but then the excavator _does_ stop, mere feet away from the human shield they’ve formed before the buried temple. Its engine rumbles on, deafening, sending vibrations through the ground beneath their feet, and then comes a shrill beeping sound as it’s thrown into reverse. Back, back, and only when there’s several yards of space between it and them does it stop and go silent.

Baze doesn’t dare breathe—the entire city, it seems, is holding his breath. Then the source of the call is made plain. From around the side of the excavator come two people, flanked by police wearing the dark charcoal uniforms of the Consulate’s personal guards, and it is not Krennic and the General.

“Papa!” Jyn cries, and jerks forward, but she does not let go of his hand.

Galen Erso spares her a smile and no more—his eyes, and the eyes of the city, are focused on the figure beside him: Head Councilwoman Mothma, wearing full court regalia and looking so deadly furious that Baze hardly recognizes her. In press conferences and city meetings she’s always so calm and serene, but today she looks as if the slightest breath of wind on her glassy surface would coax from her a typhoon.

“Director Krennic,” she says, steely-eyed. She wears no microphone, but her voice carries anyway, amplified by the bowl of the excavation and her own powerful projection. “General Tarkin. You are both under arrest.”

Backed by the First Order tank idling not far away, the two men hardly appear cowed. Krennic even goes so far as to laugh, though it’s a little weaker than Baze remembers it. _Not so easy to laugh it off when your enemy isn’t being pinned to the ground by your lackeys, is it?_

“On what grounds?” Krennic demands. His voice doesn’t carry nearly as well, but Mon Mothma appears to hear him just fine. She gestures, and two of the attendant officers march across the sand toward them.

“On grounds of attempted murder,” she replies, and each word bites like the snap of winter’s first frost. “On grounds of undue influence over the elected Consulate. On grounds of the murder of Lyra Erso, and threats against her family. On grounds of infiltrating the police, our city’s protectors, with the intention of exploiting them to your own ends.” She smiles, a cold and unfeeling thing. “I could go on, but I think that is enough to be starting with.”

At his side, Chirrut leans in and whispers, “What’s happening?”

Baze shakes his head dumbly. “They’re being arrested—Krennic and Tarkin. Being put into cuffs and led away. I don’t…” He isn’t sure what to say, what to think or feel. A very large part of him is still expecting to feel the unforgiving metal of the excavator driving them all into the abyss. And yet…

The people watching from the top of the escarpment burst into cheers and applause as a police cruiser takes Krennic and Tarkin away, and Baze flinches at the noise. To either side of him, everyone is shouting with delight and hugging one another, clapping each other on the back—Jyn jumps at him and kisses his cheek before running across the open sand to embrace her father—but Baze is numb with disbelief.

“Is it over?” Chirrut inquires under all the noise. They are the only two left standing hand in hand, watching as a celebration unfolds around them, and Chirrut turns to cup his face in his free hand. “Baze?”

“It’s over,” Baze says, rather stupidly. “I…”

Chirrut touches his thumb to the corner of Baze’s mouth, and frowns. “You don’t look happy.”

“I don’t—I am. I _am_ happy.” He’s aware even as he says it how foolish it sounds, and that realization cracks a little of the shock that’s woven itself around him like a shell. He watches Jyn kissing Galen’s cheek and jumping up and down with Leia, their dark heads bowed together, and… he laughs. “I’m happy, Chirrut.”

“There you are.” Chirrut grins, all teeth, and pinches Baze’s cheek. “There’s the man I love.”

///

The story unfolds in pieces. The thumb drive was passed to them through silent Order rebels from Galen Erso himself, a demonstration of a prototype for a weapon that would allow the Order to dominate not only Jedha City, but every major city on the planet. Their inspiration came from the original Empire, who had ruled over half the city-states by virtue of their stranglehold on kyber centuries ago. Led by Tarkin, and others, they had slowly worked their way into every public sector, making themselves indispensable, and indistinguishable.

The groundwork had been laid very early. Baze can remember when the Order was first founded in the city—he was only a boy, then, when a ragtag collection of neo-Imperial terrorists had attacked the Consulate and sent the entire city into chaos. The Order had been formed to combat it, to bring justice and peace to Jedha City, and after nearly a year of political and military struggle, they had prevailed. But then, instead of disbanding, the Order remained. Growing. Spreading. Weaving themselves into the fabric of Jedha’s politics and culture until they were part of its foundation, its everyday life. A silent and invisible stranglehold that wouldn't come to light for decades.

But now everything is out in the open. As soon as Jyn watched the video, she had called Leia, who had called her father, who had called an emergency gathering of the Consulate behind closed doors. By the time Baze and Chirrut had arrived at the dig site, efforts were already underway to apprehend Tarkin and Krennic and their accomplices.

“They could have come a little sooner,” Baze grumbles when he learns this, ensconced with Chirrut and Jyn and Galen and a few others in a private chamber in the Consulate. “We were about to be killed.”

“The timing wasn’t quite as neat as I would have liked,” Bail Organa admits. He gives a deep, apologetic bow, and rests a hand protectively on his daughter’s shoulder. “Nearly half the Consulate was in the Order’s pocket, and it was difficult to convince the rest that immediate action was necessary. Jyn’s efforts helped in that regard.” He nods to her, sitting between Galen and Cassian and nearly vibrating with the aftereffects of their victory. “Spreading the word to the people, getting the city in an uproar… none of this would have been possible without you.”

The Order, they are told, has been disbanded. Forcibly. Those who could be identified are now in prison, awaiting trial—but a trial will likely be a long time coming. The Consulate’s numbers have been depleted by four, with the rest of them under suspicion, and a full investigation will have to be held before elections can take place to restore those seats that now stand empty.

“And who will undertake this investigation?” Chirrut asks, when the full story has been unravelled. “If the Consulate cannot make judgements while under suspicion, who will act? The police, who are just as overrun with Order plants as you?”

“As Head Councilwoman, I do have some authority,” Mon Mothma says. “And with that, I hope to appoint someone to lead this enormous task who is both trustworthy and beloved of the people. Someone they will respect, someone whose decisions they will stand behind.” Her eyes scan each one of them in turn, and somehow Baze isn’t surprised when they land on him and stay. “Baze Malbus, you are a decorated veteran of the police force, and still well-loved by many who once served with you. I know it is a lot to ask, but will you consider stepping back into your captaincy and taking on the role of Chief Investigator?”

Baze tries not to visibly wince as Chirrut digs his fingers into his arm. “I was never a detective, ma’am. This isn’t really my area of expertise.”

“You may recruit a team at your discretion, of course,” Motha says, smiling. “Bail and I have already compiled a list of potential candidates to assist you in this endeavor, although a few, I fear, have been retired for some time.”

Baze considers it. He can _feel_ Chirrut’s opinion on the subject as if he were shouting it into his ear, and so instead of asking him, he looks at Jyn. “What do you think, Jyn-feather?”

Her eyes pop, and she glances at her father and Bail and Mon Mothma all at once before looking back at him. “What do _I_ think? Why are you asking me?” She half-laughs, taut with incredulity and nerves. “I mean, I think you would be amazing at it, obviously. I suppose you’d have to give up the tattoo shop for a little while… or a few years… but…”

“A small price to pay for justice,” Chirrut murmurs. Baze sighs. He can already feel the headache gathering behind his eyes, but he knows his answer.

“I want Maz Kanata on my team,” he says, and Jyn grins and wriggles in her chair like she’s trying to keep from jumping up and shouting her approval. He glances at the man beside her, and thinks of Lyra. “And Galen.”

Bail clears his throat. “Mr. Erso—forgive me, _Doctor_ Erso—is also considered to be under investigation…”

“He smuggled the plans to us,” Baze returns evenly, matching the Councilman stare for stare. “Without him, we would all be lying at the bottom of a hole right now, nothing more than corpses. Including your daughter.” It’s a bit of a harsh reminder, but Organa bows his head and mutters assent, so Baze takes it as a victory. “Dr. Erso has intimate knowledge of the Order’s inner workings. I believe he will be an asset during this investigation.”

“You’ve made your case,” Mothma says gently. “It will be done. And I will see about contacting Ms. Katana about moving out of retirement.” She stands, and everyone in the room stands, too, just a few beats too slow for propriety. Somehow it doesn’t seem to matter. She extends her hand, and Baze reaches out to clasp it in a good old-fashioned handshake. “There are many details to work out, but I understand you’ve had a very trying couple of days. You may all consider yourselves dismissed. Rest, recuperate. Take some time to find your equilibrium. We’ll be in touch, Captain.”

Baze nods his head, deep enough that it’s almost a bow.

And then it’s over. They leave the room in a bit of a jumble, Bodhi and Cassian with their hands interlaced, Jyn stuck to her father’s side like a burr, Leia and Bail Organa much the same. Kay slinks along behind like a grouchy shadow, but even he appears pleased with the outcome of the day’s events.

Baze and Chirrut trail behind the rest, a little slower, a little more mellow. Chirrut’s injuries must be paining him, but he makes no complaint, only leaning against Baze a little harder than he normally does, his free hand swinging loosely through the air as though it misses its cane. It’s a slow and retrospective procession through the Consulate halls, a strange counterpoint to the last time they walked this path, and when they come to the front doors and out into the warm glow of the sinking sun, Baze feels as if he hardly recognizes the city from here.

“Well,” Chirrut sighs, melancholy bleeding through at last. “I suppose the dig is done for.”

“It’s not. It can’t be. I won’t allow it,” Baze says fiercely, and Chirrut laughs softly.

“Then I’ll take you at your word, Captain. Or is it Inspector, now?”

“Damned if I know,” Baze mutters, already regretting his decision. And yet, there’s a small part of him that curls with intrigue and excitement, looking forward to what the next few days—weeks—months will bring. “Do you think Bodhi could run InkJedha on his own?”

“Oh, certainly,” Chirrut says without missing a beat. “Though he may need to hire some help. That young man with the dog, Mr. Solo… I understand he has quite the talent with ink.”

Baze snorts. “Bragging isn’t the same as having talent. But I suppose that’s Bodhi’s decision.”

He pauses at the bottom of the Consulate steps, watching Bail and Galen carrying on a somewhat stilted conversation a few paces away as they try valiantly to ignore their daughters locked in a passionate embrace. Further on, Bodhi is chasing Cassian across the lawn and laughing at the top of his lungs, long dark hair streaming out behind him. They’re just kids, really, he thinks to himself. But brilliant nonetheless, like young, impulsive stars flaring bright in a dark night sky. _Stardust._

Chirrut squeezes his hand. “You know, my place is a bit of a war zone right now. Would you be awfully upset if I stayed with you until it’s put back in order?”

“I’d be offended if you stayed anywhere else.” Baze slips an arm around his waist, gently, avoiding his bruised ribs, and smudges a kiss to the crown of his head. There’s a tremendous amount of work to be done, but with Chirrut at his side it doesn’t seem so insurmountable. “Come on, _tiánxīn._ Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW. Well folks, this was it! We have another epilogue-type chapter coming up full of fluff and loose ends, and then it will be time to say goodbye to this story (for now). I don't have any other tie-ins immediately planned, there's some other stuff brewing that I've been dying to work on, but never say never! 
> 
> I'll save the thank-yous for the last chapter, but the amount of feedback I've received on this fic has been truly heartening, and I'm so glad to be part of this fandom! Y'all have made the ride really enjoyable. <3 
> 
> My only regret for this story was that I couldn't figure out how the make Bodhi the messenger with the flash drive! He served in the Order air force for a few years so they would pay for his schooling, but he doesn't anymore and idk how he would have been in contact with galen so... my bad for taking that awesome part of his character away sobs. I really wanted to give him more agency and screentime but... ensembles are hard... But anyway, if anyone has any lingering questions about the Order and other associated plot points, let me know. I did a miniature write-up of the history of Jedha City as it stands in this fic, just so I could keep shit straight, and it's super loose and informal but I could post it to tumblr if anyone wants? Let me know!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jyn wears heels. Chirrut panics. Baze finds inner peace.

_[two years later]_

“Well? How do I look?”

Lieutenant Antilles slowly lifts his eyes from the report he’s putting together, and his eyebrows follow suit, crumpled and incredulous. “You look like you’re running late. With respect, sir.” He stands and motions him forward. “I thought you were going to wear your uniform.”

“Changed my mind,” Baze grunts, lifting his chin as the Lieutenant adjusts the lapels of his suit coat and tightens the knot on his tie. “I was hoping _not_ to choke to death during the ceremony, but I see those hopes were unfounded.”

“Tsk. Don’t be so dramatic.” Wedge stands back and eyes him up and down. “Much better. Your husband isn’t going to be happy, though. I distinctly remember him telling you to wear the uniform.”

“He’ll survive.” Baze grabs his coat from the rack by the office door and pauses. “What about my hair? Is my hair all right?”

“It’s _fine_ , Inspector,” Wedge laughs, waving him on. “Go, before you’re late. She’ll never forgive you if you miss it.”

“I’ll never forgive _myself_ ,” Baze corrects, and slams out the door. A polisci intern walking past jumps and nearly drops her clipboard, but he doesn’t have time to stop and apologize. For once he doesn’t mind his reputation as a grim, irritable man—people scatter as he navigates the back hallways of the Jedha City Consulate, heading for the door to the employee parking lot as quick as he can without mussing his suit.

The day is fine, for once, the sky a cloudless blue vaulting over Jedha’s late springtime streets. Trees are beginning to flower and bud, and people have taken to carrying their jackets over their arms in the height of midday’s warmth. Baze is oblivious to all of it. He checks his watch and throws his briefcase into the back of his car unceremoniously. Fifteen minutes until graduation. He can still make it.

Chirrut texts him as he’s wedging his vehicle into a parking spot of dubious legality a few minutes’ walk from Jedha Community College. _[Where are you? Bodhi and I have our seats. We’re in the front, to the left of the podium.]_

“Coming,” Baze singsongs under his breath. He leaves his coat behind and walks briskly along the sidewalk, relying on his height and ‘resting bitch face,’ as Jyn calls it, to clear a path. He isn’t sure if Chirrut wants a phone call, or if he’ll even be able to hear him in the busy auditorium, so he types back a reply as he turns the corner and ducks into the stream of people heading toward the graduation ceremony. _[Is Galen there?]_

 _[Yes. And Leia.]_ is the swift reply. _[We have a seat saved for you, but come quickly. Bodhi informs me that people are giving us “looks.”]_

 _[People can stuff it]_ Baze types back, because he knows it will make Chirrut laugh. He digs around in his pocket for his ticket, now a bit crumpled, and edges into the auditorium just as the lights are beginning to dim.

“Made it,” he murmurs, sliding into the aisle seat that has Chirrut’s coat tossed over it. Chirrut doesn’t turn to face him, but leans in pointedly. Baze smiles and kisses his cheek; at his feet, Echo thumps her tail twice in greeting. “What did I miss?”

“Just him panicking that you weren’t going to make it,” Bodhi stage-whispers, leaning across Chirrut’s lap. Chirrut smacks the back of his head with unerring accuracy and Bodhi yelps. A moment later someone hushes them from behind, and Bodhi subsides into his chair with a grumble, rubbing the back of his head. On his other side, Leia pats his knee sympathetically, and Baze turns his eyes to the stage.

The Dean of the college gives a nice little speech that Baze mostly tunes out. He busies himself instead with locating Jyn. It takes a while, but he finds her eventually sitting in the middle of her class, looking bored out of her mind. She put a little makeup on for the occasion, and her hair is loose around her face—probably through Leia’s intervention—and she looks on the verge of falling asleep. Given how late she was up putting the finishing touches on her application to Jedha University, he doesn’t blame her.

“Do you see her?” Chirrut whispers as the speeches draw to a close. A few of the JCC professors are coming to the fore to read the names of the students in their respective departments. Mr. So is among them, reedy and sombre in a black suit and shirt, and looking just on the verge of _sour_. Baze smiles and leans closer to reply.

“Yeah. She looks exhausted, but she made it.” He settles a hand on Chirrut’s thigh, draped with the fabric of his black collegiate robes for the occasion. The gold embroidery of Department Head shimmers subtly on his sleeve and collar as Chirrut puts his hand over Baze’s and lets their fingers lace together.

It’s a big graduating class this year, and the names seem endless, but eventually it’s the Engineering department’s turn. Chirrut’s hand tightens on his, and when Kay’s disaffected drawl pronounces, “Jyn Lyra Erso, Associate’s Degree,” he’s the first one out of his seat to applaud. The others are close behind, though, and when Baze glances over, he can see the glint of tears shining suspiciously on Galen’s otherwise stern face. Jyn forgets herself and waves at them instead of posting with the Dean for the camera, but at least she remembers to grab her diploma before returning to her seat.

After the ceremony, they hang back, letting the auditorium empty out around them in a stream of noise and bustle. Chirrut has to fend off a few people who want to pet Echo in spite of her clearly visible service harness, but that’s fairly par for the course—and when it looks like one parent in particular might protest on behalf of their small, grabby-handed toddler, Baze just squares his shoulders and gives her a dead-eyed stare, and she scurries onward with her child in tow. Bodhi snorts and kicks out his long legs, crossed neatly at the ankle.

“People never learn,” he says, even as he sneaks in a pat to Echo’s head. She just looks at him, unimpressed, and Chirrut laughs.

“You know, the reason I chose a shepherd was to avoid this kind of thing. They have a bit of a reputation, and I’m told they look rather fierce. Perhaps Echo is just a particularly adorable specimen of the breed.” He reaches out and she sniffs obediently at his hand, a little _still here_ that Baze has seen them exchange a hundred times and more. She sneezes and gets to her feet. “Ah. Here she is—the woman of the hour.”

“Sorry I took so long,” Jyn says breathlessly, throwing her arms around Galen first, then coming to Baze. He picks her up off her feet a little, red graduation robes dangling, and blows the tassel on her cap out of his face. “They wanted us to pose for a picture. Where’s Cass?”

“Filling in at the club,” Chirrut says apologetically. “I couldn’t find another substitute in time, I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay, he would have been bored stiff anyway. I know I was.” She yawns pointedly, and Baze tugs on her cap. “You can have it!” she says, and pushes it into his hands. “Bloody uncomfortable thing.”

“You’re not going to toss it into the air?” Bodhi asks, disappointed. “That’s the best part.”

“Then it’s yours.” Baze hands him the cap and ruffles Jyn’s disordered hair. “I’m proud of you, Jyn-feather,” he whispers, and she wrinkles her nose, grinning as she ducks away.

“Thanks, Dad. Baba, you look so good in your new robes!”

She fawns over Chirrut for a little bit, then hooks one arm through Galen’s and the other through Leia’s for the walk outside. Bodhi walks alongside, spinning the discarded cap like a ball in his hands, and Baze and Chirrut take up the rear a little more slowly, arm in arm, with Echo loping just ahead of Chirrut’s stride. Jyn is right, Baze thinks—he does look good. The quiet glint of the embroidery suits him, a striking contrast to his dark hair and pale eyes. And maybe it’s just his imagination, but they seem to make his shoulders broader and more confident, his chin a little higher.

He hadn’t been expecting the appointment. None of them had, though Baze was not at all surprised—after the disastrous semester-long “sabbatical,” come to an abrupt end with the termination of the Order, Chirrut had thrown himself back into his teaching with single-minded vigor, taking on more classes and introducing a whole new set of curriculum to the History Department’s offerings, made possible when Mayor Palpatine’s bill was overturned on the eve of his own impeachment. When Dr. Yoda gave up the Department Head position to devote himself to private study, Chirrut was the obvious choice for replacement.

In spite of his initial surprise—and, admitted only to Baze in quiet moments, initial self-doubt—Chirrut wears the mantle well. More importantly, it affords him the perfect opportunity to put pressure on the University to raise funding for the Temple dig. After almost two years of legal battles and investigations, most of which rested on Baze’s shoulders, it was decided that the Council would rescind all rights to the dig site in favor of Jedha University. Now all that remains is to get the money together, a slow but steady process that has been picking up speed with the garnered interest from partner universities in Coruscant and Naboo.

And Jyn. Baze watches her fight her way out of her voluminous graduation robes, laughing, and feels a lump threatening to form in his throat. Today’s achievement is remarkable, given her struggles all throughout school to conform to the strictures of the education system, but already she seems to have blown by her time at JCC and is looking forward to the future. And though he aches a little with the first stirrings of empty nest syndrome, Baze looks with her.

/

“Dad?”

Baze looked up from his laptop and over the rims of his reading glasses. Jyn was standing in the door to the kitchen, dressed for bed in leggings and an oversized hoodie, but the sheaf of papers in her hand told him she was a long way from sleeping. He checked the clock—was it really ten thirty already?—and sat back in his chair. “What’s up, _xiāojīn_?”

“I was wondering,” she said slowly, dragging her feet further into the kitchen, “if you could look over my college application with me. If you’re not too busy.”

Baze blinked and rewound the last few weeks in his head, trying to catch up. As far as he knew, Jyn had never mentioned applying for further education, even though her career as a student at JCC was coming to a close at the end of this semester. Her plan had been to continue working part-time at InkJedha while picking up some TA-type work for Mr. So, who for all his taciturnity seemed to value her input enough to keep her around.

“You’ve never mentioned college before,” he replied, even as he closed his laptop and invited her to join him with a tilt of his head.

“I know.” She sat, and laid out two individual packets, already mostly filled out, the application essays stapled to the back and written over in neat red pen. “Leia and I have been talking. And… Chirrut.”

This last came with even more hesitancy, and Baze was surprised all over again. He really shouldn’t have been—work frequently kept him busy well over the traditional forty-hour workweek, as evidenced by his laptop and the lateness of the hour, and he had been tied up a lot recently with the investigation into General Tarkin’s involvement with the Order. It only made sense that she would go to Chirrut over him.

“All right,” he said, as neutrally as possible. “Fill me in.”

She gave a little nervous smile and folded her hands like a student preparing to give a well-rehearsed presentation to her teacher. “Okay. So. Leia has been saying I should go to college for ages now—she thinks I’m too smart to kick around the same trade school year after year until they just hire me on as an adjunct professor. I didn’t really believe her at first, but then… well, Chirrut’s been working on those new programs, you know. The graduate ones. He brought two before the university board last week and they’ve been approved.”

Baze nodded along. _Grad school? She’s always scoffed at getting her undergrad, let alone a master’s degree._ “I remember. Not the specific programs, you’ll have to refresh my memory.”

“One of them is a polisci/historical thing, I don’t remember the name.” She waved her hand dismissively. “But the other one is a Master of Fine Arts in Archaeology, Technology and Historical Structures. Basically combining engineering and archaeology. So I thought, if I can get my undergrad in archaeology somewhere…”

She wanted to study with Chirrut. It was the most adorable thing he’d ever heard. He remembered the early days of knowing him, when she had been so vehemently determined to dislike him, and smiled. “This has nothing to do with the Temple dig, I suppose,” he teased gently, but she didn’t laugh.

“It has everything to do with it,” she replied with utter conviction. “I asked Chirrut and he said I had a shot, even though my GPA isn’t that great right now. If I can convince someone to accept me, and work hard for the next three years, I can apply to work on the dig as part of my graduate degree.”

 _If the University can agree on funding_ , Baze thought to himself, but he didn’t voice it. It had been closed off for almost a year and a half while the Council tried to decide what to do with it, but now that ownership had been established, three years was plenty of time for Jedha U to raise the money and reopen the excavation. He nodded and pushed his spectacles up his nose. “Let’s take a look at these applications, then.”

/

“I’m going to miss her,” Baze says suddenly, still far enough from the others that Chirrut is the only one who hears. He cocks his head in Baze’s direction.

“What do you mean? Has she heard back from Coruscant?”

“Not yet. But I have a feeling if they accept her...” He shrugs. “It was her mother’s alma mater. And she’s restless, I can tell. If she wants to get her master’s here, it stands to reason that she’d want to try a few years somewhere new, somewhere no one knows her name.”

“Everyone on NiJedha knows her name,” Chirrut demurs, but he squeezes his arm in comfort. “It won’t be forever. She knows where home is.”

Baze opens his mouth to reply, but it subsides into the back of his throat as Jyn peels away from Galen’s side and comes toward him. Under her graduation robes, now hanging over Bodhi’s shoulders like a Holi day shawl, she’s wearing her favorite pair of jeans and a t-shirt with the InkJedha logo on it, completely at odd with the pretty red pumps Leia had loaned her for the occasion. They put the top of her head right at Baze’s chin level, perfect for kissing her hair when she puts her arms around his neck and holds on tight.

“You kept your promise about not throwing a big party, didn’t you?”

Chirrut snorts before Baze can so much as nod. “Have you met him? He almost wept with relief when you told him he wouldn’t have to play host.”

“Shut up,” Baze mumbles, even though it’s half true.

Jyn smirks and steps back, running her fingers through her hair to settle it. Then they fall, one to her side, the other to the necklace hiding beneath her shirt. “Papa and I are going to see Mom before dinner. Did you want to come with?”

Baze shakes his head. He’ll visit Lyra’s grave later, in private, so no one has to see him weep. “You go ahead. I’ll pick up the food and get everything ready at home. Okay?”

“Okay.” She rocks up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek and heads to Galen’s car. Leia goes with her, their hands laced together comfortably.

Bodhi, now saddled with Jyn’s castoff graduation garb, approaches next. “Can you drop me off at the club? I told Cassian I’d meet him there before coming to yours.”

“Sure.” Baze jerks his head in the direction of the car, and they set off.

It’s a strange little family that’s sprung up around him these last few years. Bodhi, young but full of drive and passion, has taken to his new role at InkJedha like a fish to water, expanding his clientele and building a name for himself out from under Baze’s shadow. Although he’s still the owner, he has very little to do with the tattoo shop these days; Bodhi has proved to be a very capable manager as well as a capable and respected artist in his own right. His boyfriend Cassian has similarly thrown himself into his job teaching at Chirrut’s martial arts club, and between the two of them _and_ Jyn and Leia, Baze rarely has an empty table at dinner.

And Chirrut, of course. Baze rubs his thumb over the ring that sits on Chirrut’s left hand, and smiles to feel the answering squeeze. Three months and he’s still not used to it. It still feels like yesterday when they were sitting at Chirrut’s kitchen table, a few months out from the Order’s downfall, skirting around the issue of moving in together, let alone _marriage._

“What are you thinking about?” Chirrut murmurs as they draw abreast of Baze’s car. Bodhi hops in the back with Echo, and Baze holds the door open for Chirrut, pondering his answer.

“The beginning.”

/

Chirrut hadn’t been sleeping well. Insomnia did bother him on occasion, but never for more than a few days at a time, and never with such a distinctive pattern. Staying over at Baze’s was usually safe, but whenever he slept at home, with or without Baze, he was plagued by recurring nightmares and restlessness that refused to abate, even long after the destruction wreaked by Krennic’s lackeys had been dealt with.

“The energy has been disrupted,” he would say with a smile whenever Baze broached the subject. “With time, it will pass.”

It did not pass. Sensing that Chirrut didn’t want to discuss the subject, Baze watched in silent agony as his health slowly began to fail over the course of the next few months. The only relief he had was when he stayed over at Baze’s. There he slept well, or at least _better_ , and on the weekends that he could be persuaded to spend with Baze and Jyn, his bruised eyes would return to normal and he smiled more, laughed and moved without the tension of sleeplessness weighing him down. But then Sunday evening would roll around, the cycle began all over again.

The breaking point came around the end of the year. Baze dropped by as planned on a Wednesday evening, dim sum in hand, but somehow in the intervening hours between their discussion about dinner and Baze’s arrival, Chirrut had completely forgotten he was coming—and worse, for a moment he didn’t recognize him. Baze had let himself in with Chirrut’s spare key, and nearly had the shit beaten out of him when Chirrut flew at him with his cane and his fists while Echo looked on, confused and distraught by her master’s odd behavior. She _knew_ Baze, and yet, in that moment, Chirrut didn’t.

It was the last straw. Baze sat him down, brushing off his cascade of horrified apologies, and begged for an explanation.

“I thought you were someone breaking in,” Chirrut whispered, his face turned away in shame and his voice so soft that Baze had to strain to hear him. “I forgot you were coming, and I just… reacted.”

“Chirrut. Love.” Baze held his hands to his lips, kissed each one in turn, silently praying for Chirrut to hear and understand him. “I’m worried for you. This place—it isn’t good for you. I know you love it, or loved it once, but not anymore. Please. You can’t keep living here if this continues.”

Chirrut was quiet for a long time. Then, eventually, sounding as if it pained him, he murmured, “I thought it would get better. I thought—it’s ridiculous, isn’t it, that one break-in would linger like this? But every time I try to sleep, I… think about that night. Or I wake up constantly, certain I heard something, heard someone at the door or the window…”

“Oh, Chirrut.” Baze pulled him into his arms, gently, touching the bags beneath his eyes that never seemed to fully fade. “There’s no shame in it.”

Chirrut put his face against Baze’s neck, and his breath was hot and trembling. “I’m so tired, Baze. So tired.” His fingers, curled until now like claws in the front of Baze’s shirt, went limp. “But I don’t know what else to do. I don’t—I don’t want to impose on you, and my lease isn’t up for months yet.”

“It’s not imposing. I _want_ you to stay with me. For as long as you need. Maybe even—” He stopped, hand suspended in the midst of stroking Chirrut’s back. He could feel his _zama-shiwo_ under his shirt, long healed, the scars swooping and coiling in an intricate dance that he knew by heart. Chirrut breathed out and relaxed against him, a querying sound lingering in his throat.

“Maybe even what?”

Baze considered his words carefully. “I’m not asking you this because I think you can’t take care of yourself, or because I want to, to control you. And it’s not just because of this. The insomnia, I mean.”

He felt the pressure of Chirrut’s ribs against his side, shaking with suppressed laughter. “Noted. Are you going to finish your sentence now?”

Baze gave his thigh a gentle pinch in reproof. “Move in with me. Ah, please? If you want to.”

Chirrut went still. “For… good?”

“Yes.” His mouth was very dry, but he meant it, _oh_ how he meant it.

“Can I… think about it?” Chirrut said hesitantly some moments later. “I confess I would like it very much, but… it’s hard to think, right now, with my head all…”

“Of course. Yes, of course, take as much time as you need.” His hand resumed its soothing path, and Chirrut seemed to relax again under his patient touch. “But in the meantime, just for now, will you come stay with me? While you figure things out?” Their dim sum was going cold on the counter, but he was in no rush. It would reheat. “I would feel better if I knew you were getting a full night’s sleep more than once a week. And I think you would, too.”

Chirrut sagged against him and nodded. “All right. Just let me put a bag together.”

/

Chirrut calls ahead, and their food is waiting when they walk across the old square to Cao Cao’s for pickup. The owner knows them both well by now, and makes sure to slip in some extra baozi with their order. “For the woman of the hour,” he says, eyes nearly disappearing in a forest of wrinkles as he grins and pats Baze’s hand. “You must be very proud.”

“I am, _yéye_ , thank you.” Baze slips some extra bills into the tip jar and takes Chirrut’s hand for the walk back to the car.

When they arrive, Cassian and Bodhi have beaten them to it. They’re sitting on the front porch in the shade of the flowering tukka vine, transplanted twice now from Chirrut’s old apartment and thriving in spite of it. Chirrut says it prefers their new home to anywhere else because of the good feng shui— _it’s just another word for the Force, Baze, don’t look at me like that_ —but Baze thinks it’s just the sunlight and the fresh dirt; no Force required.

“Oh good, you’re already here. Make yourselves useful and set the food out.”

“Sir yes sir!” Bodhi barks, snapping to attention. His irrepressible grin ruins the effect, and Baze snorts as he pushes the bag of dim sum gently into his chest.

“Take it easy, Rook. Cassian, glad to have you.”

“Glad I could make it, sir,” Cassian replies. He relieves Baze of the other half of his burden and follows his boyfriend into the house once Baze unlocks the door.

Baze stands just inside and lets the comfort of being home wash over him. The aroma of incense seems to linger slightly at all times of day, and down the hall comes a draft of warm air from the garden as the boys open the back door, letting in the smell of fresh grass and the flowering miniature dove tree that Baze had gifted Chirrut for their wedding. Echo trots past him, now off-duty, and she lopes through the kitchen and out the sliding doors to the garden as Chirrut come in behind her, harness in hand.

“I’m here,” Baze says before Chirrut can run into him. Chirrut smiles.

“I know.” He puts a hand on Baze’s shoulder and leans up to kiss his cheek. “I could feel you thinking. Why so introspective today, _lǎo gong?_ Has Jyn’s graduation made you sentimental?”

“Maybe.” Baze snags him around the waist before he can move further into the house, and Chirrut laughs, letting the harness fall to the ground so he can cradle Baze’s head in his hands. “Just reminiscing.”

“Mm.” Chirrut smiles and kisses him, thumbs finding his crow’s feet and the coarse grey beginning to thread more liberally through his hair. Then his hands drop to Baze’s shoulders and he pulls back with a sigh. “I thought you said you would wear the uniform. For me.” He bats his eyes and then yelps when Baze pats his bottom. “Baze! The boys…”

“They’re setting up in the garden. It’s fine.” He double-checks his line of sight, but he can’t even see Bodhi or Cassian through the length of the house, so he feels safe giving Chirrut’s ass a hefty squeeze with both hands. “And I was going to wear it, but, ah… it needs some letting out.”

Chirrut’s playful smirk stretches into that familiar devilish grin, and he loops his arms around Baze’s substantial middle and squeezes. “Yes I know,” he purrs, ignoring Baze’s embarrassed cough.

“Too much desk work,” Baze mutters. “I should start hitting the gym more often.”

“Whatever makes you happy, my love.” Chirrut smudges a kiss to his throat and grunts, detangling himself just enough to work at his tie. “I’m sure you look very sharp in your suit, too, but the tie definitely has to go. Whills, are you trying to suffocate yourself?”

“No, but I think Lieutenant Antilles is. Ahhh, that’s better.” He cricks his neck from side to side as Chirrut pulls the tie off and works open the first few buttons of his shirt. And then a few more, enough that he can slip a hand inside and stroke over the swirling lines of his _zama-shiwo_.

The new addition he’d had Bodhi put in is still a little tender, but Chirrut’s hand is soft and cool as he runs light fingertips over the dates written in Braille into his skin. The day Chirrut had walked into his studio for the first time, branded indelibly into his memory, and the day Chirrut stood with him in front of the judge at the Consulate and became his husband. Baze tightens his hold on his waist and touches their foreheads together.

“Jyn will be here soon,” he whispers. “Come on, let’s go change.”

/

It was too bloody hot to sleep. The night was hot and thick with moisture—all the windows were open to let the slightest breeze pass through, but it hardly made any difference. Baze laid on his back in bed and stared at the ceiling, lightly sweating in spite of the fact that he was on top of the sheets in nothing more than a pair of boxer briefs.

At his side, Chirrut laid so still and breathed so deeply and slow that Baze thought he was asleep, by some miracle. But then he felt the mattress shift, and a hand snuck across the empty space between them to pet his shoulder. He grunted and felt Chirrut’s laughter waft against his cheek.

“Can’t sleep?”

“I knew we should have waited until fall to move house,” Baze grumped. “I’m buying an A/C unit tomorrow first thing.”

“It _is_ unusually warm.” Chirrut’s voice was slow and syrupy with sleep, and he yawned, resting his head against Baze’s shoulder.

“It’s too hot,” Baze protested weakly. It wasn’t as if it mattered—he wasn’t going to fall asleep anytime soon. But Chirrut kissed his damp skin in apology and moved away, swinging his legs off the side of the bed. Baze immediately felt bad. “Where are you going?”

“To get us a treat. I’ll be right back.” He reached behind him and patted around until he found Baze’s knee, and he squeezed it before getting out of bed.

Baze watched him go, a lick of heat curling traitorously in his belly. Chirrut was similarly dressed in a pair of boxer briefs, leaving the rest of him exposed to the heavy night air, and Baze’s eyes lingered on his strong, scarred back and his trim legs as he moved through the darkened room and out into the hall. When he was out of sight, he flopped back down on the pillow and sighed, reaching down to adjust the contents of his boxers.

Chirrut returned a few minutes later with a glass of ice water and a bowl of frozen grapes, the latter of which he placed on Baze’s chest before climbing back into bed. Baze made an irritable noise at the sudden shock of cold, but then Chirrut pressed a grape to his lips and he forgot to be grumpy.

“That’s better,” Chirrut murmured, touching the corner of his smile. He leaned down and kissed the juice off Baze’s lips.

“It’s too hot to have sex, Chirrut,” Baze told him when he dragged his fingers down to the center of his chest, exploring his _zama-shiwo_.

“Why? We’re already sweating. And we can take a cool shower after.”

“At one in the morning?”

“Time is meaningless, Baze.” _Kiss_.

In spite of his earlier irritability, Baze felt a chuckle welling up inside his belly. He let it out in a soft huff and fed Chirrut a grape. “You’re beautiful,” he said, and stalled. He’d meant to tease him, but other words came out instead, coaxed from him by the heat and the fog of affection that dogged his steps whenever Chirrut was near.

“Mmm. As are you, oh love of my life.”

Baze exhaled. “How do you know? You can’t even see me.”

Chirrut smiled and wiggled his fingers. “Of course I can. And I don’t need eyesight to know that you’re the most handsome, patient, adoring man I’ve ever met.”

Baze’s throat felt thick and stoppered, so he cleared it with a few more grapes. When he could speak again, he caught up Chirrut’s hand from its meandering and brought it to his lips. “You’re the love of mine, too, _tiánxīn_.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Chirrut replied without a trace of levity. His face was deadly serious as he leaned down and kissed him clumsily, first on the brow and then down, his cheek, his nose, the corner of his mouth. Baze curled a hand around his nape to guide him, to kiss his mouth more fully, and Chirrut was smiling when they finally parted with a soft, slick sound. “Do you think we should make it official?”

Baze took a deep breath and moved the bowl of frozen grapes onto the mattress. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Chirrut said, and paused, like he was gathering his courage for a leap. Chirrut was hardly ever afraid of anything, and this slight hesitation fuelled Baze into sitting up and pulling him into his arms, heat and humidity be damned. “What do you think of getting married?”

The bedroom was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Baze shut his eyes and pressed his brow to Chirrut’s, interlacing their fingers. “I think I would like that very much.” He thought of their new home, with the garden and the lawn and the high wall clambering with tukka vines, and he could picture it so easily—living here, together, for the rest of their lives, while the city moved around them like a thrumming heartbeat. “When?”

“I—don’t know,” Chirrut said, and laughed, breathless. “What do _you_ think?”

“Tomorrow.” Impulsive, he flopped back onto the mattress and pulled Chirrut with him, plastering their sweat-damp bodies together in spite of the heat. “Come with me to the Consulate and marry me. Unless—would you rather a ceremony?” he amended uncertainly.

Chirrut smirked. “The only ceremony I want is the sort you can’t have in public. Mmf!” He jerked in surprise when Baze reached down and pinched his bum, then melted against him, sliding one leg between Baze’s thighs.

“You’re a dirty old man,” Baze murmured in his ear, and Chirrut gave a scandalous gasp.

“How can you say such things about your husband-to-be? It’s perfectly legitimate! In the old days, people went to the Temple of the Whills and were blessed by the monks, and then went home and got into bed.”

“You’re just making that up.”

“I am not! I will have you know, Baze Malbus, that I am the foremost expert in—in the study of… _Baze_!”

“What?” Baze queried, pausing with his hand shoved down the front of Chirrut’s briefs. “Oh, sorry, did you want me to stop? You seemed like you were enjoying it.” He gave a little squeeze, and Chirrut’s hips bucked against him. “You know that talking about how smart you are turns me on.”

“ _Bèndàn_ ,” Chirrut gasped, even as he ground down against Baze’s hand. He reached down with one hand and hooked it behind Baze’s knee, opening his thighs to settle closer.

“Isn’t it traditional to sleep apart the night before a wedding?” Baze mused, though he didn’t stop the motion of his hand and wrist. The angle was a bit awkward, but the red bloom on Chirrut’s face was too beautiful to resist.

“This is the one and only time you will hear me say this,” Chirrut said, “but hang tradition.” He gasped and grabbed at him, then at himself, skinning out of his briefs and tugging at Baze’s until they were naked together on the sheets, sweating and panting, breathing sighs into each other’s mouths. “Baze. _Baze_ …”

“What is it, _qīn’ài de_?” Baze flattened his palm against Chirrut’s _zama-shiwo_ and used the other to grip his ass, coordinating their sloppy, desperate movements into something vaguely rhythmic. Their brand new mattress squeaked just the slightest bit in response, but he didn’t care. Jyn’s room was far enough away on the other side of the house that they wouldn’t disturb her. “Something you need?”

“You,” Chirrut breathed. He nuzzled uncoordinated kisses to his face and groaned, long and heartfelt. A moment later Baze felt the slick heat between their bodies. Chirrut trembled against him like a tree in a gale, and when he collapsed and went slack, Baze gave a few quick pulls on his own cock and followed suit.

“Fuck.” He gave a long exhale and grew lax. It was still stupidly hot, and how he was flushed and his heart was racing to boot, but he didn’t move to shove Chirrut off him. “ _Tiánxīn…_ ”

“Hmm?”

“Did you mean it?”

Chirrut sighed and rolled away, reaching for the tissues they kept by the side of the bed for emergencies. “Mean what, my love?”

“About getting married.”

“Of course I did.” He wiped them both clean and snuggled back against his side, resting his head on Baze’s outstretched bicep. Baze could feel the thud of his heartbeat in his neck, but his voice was calm, and the touch of his hand on Baze’s chest felt like being home. “Did you?”

“Yeah.” He turned his head just far enough to kiss his brow. “I have a feeling Jyn isn’t going to be pleased.”

Chirrut shook with silent laughter. “Why?”

“Ever since we started the moving process she’s been dropping hints. She’ll be disappointed in the lack of frill, I think.”

“We can let her plan a little get-together for this weekend,” Chirrut says, waving his hand dismissively before dropping it back to his sternum. “Something small. Friends and family only. She’ll like that better anyway, I think. The idea of _frill_ is usually more appealing than the real thing.”

Baze hummed. “You’re sure you don’t want any? Even a little?”

“Why would I? I don’t need anything fancy, Baze. I have _you_.”

/

In the evening, there are fireflies. Baze sits in a lawn chair watching Jyn and Bodhi trying to one-up each other in a haphazard game that he can’t quite decipher. Chirrut is refereeing, and keeps calling out cheats without actually knowing where the ball is. Cassian gave up on their impossible logic a long time ago and is laying on his back on the lawn, Echo sniffing at his bare, grass-stained feet. Leia and Galen are sitting in chairs like normal people, talking politics—Baze isn’t really sure. He’s tuning them out a little, too full of good food and sake to pay much attention.

“I win!” Jyn shouts suddenly, and sprints across the lawn with Bodhi giving chase. “Baba, tell him I won— _ow_ , Bodhi, stop it!”

They go down in a heap and Chirrut shakes his head, turning away from the field of battle. “I think it’s a draw,” he announces, and pads through the grass in the general direction of where Baze sits. An amused chuckle redirects his course, and a moment later he’s dropping straight into his lap, winding both arms around his neck and leaning in for a kiss.

“Very well done,” Baze says solemnly after delivering it, and smiles at Chirrut’s delighted laughter.

“Thank you. I should referee more often.” He strokes down the length of Baze’s arm and holds his hand, letting their wedding rings clack together. They’re a fairly recent addition—even though they were married a few months ago, it had taken time to get the jewelry right. It involved a little bit of espionage and sneaking around in the dead of night, but Jyn has always been good at that sort of thing.

They’re simple at first glance. Two titanium bands, similarly sized, with the insides engraved in Old Jedhan. Chirrut’s says _tiánxīn_ , and Baze’s _qīn’ài de_. But a closer look reveals the glint of tiny, uncut crystals lining the outer bands. Baze rubs his thumb over Chirrut’s ring and feels the answering glimmer of energy as the kyber crystals resonate at his touch.

“You look happy,” Chirrut says, touching the thin skin of his eyelid with a gentle finger. Baze snorts.

“And how do you know that?”

Chirrut waggles his eyebrows mysteriously. “The Force told me.”

“Uh-huh. And did the Force also tell you that you’re an idiot?”

“Oh, I already knew that. Luckily I’m _your_ idot.” Chirrut pats his face and leans in close. “What do you think?” he murmurs. “Is it time to kick our guests out and enjoy some peace and quiet in the privacy of our room?”

“Are you forty-four or fifteen, Chirrut?”

“Neither. Time is meaningless, Baze, remember? Age is just a number.” He grins and settles against his shoulder. “But I suppose if you’re going to be a wet blanket I can wait a little longer.”

Baze snorts. “I’m not telling Galen to leave because my husband wants to jump my bones, _bèndàn._ ” He kisses Chirrut’s cheek to take the sting out of the rebuke, and Chirrut sighs.

“No sense of adventure.”

“You’re all the adventure I need, thank you. Between you and Jyn I’ll be lucky if I’m not totally grey by forty-five.”

“I’m sure you look quite distinguished. Jyn even said so, earlier.” Chirrut kisses him, and doesn’t even bother to pretend to miss. “Does this mean you don’t want to visit me at the dig when it opens again in the spring?”

Baze pretends to consider this. “On one condition—no more cave-ins.”

Chirrut laughs. “I’ll see what I can do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it!!!!! The last chapter!! I'm a little sad alsdkfjsdf, this has been such a fun experience. I was not expecting the story to expand the way it did, or to get so much wonderful feedback. I appreciate every last one of you who's left a comment, I wouldn't have gotten this far without you!! The spiritassassin fandom is amazing, I've made so many new friends in the few short weeks since I threw myself into it headlong. Stay awesome!
> 
> Some translations for this chapter, courtesy of youridiotwriter aka quantumghosts on tumblr!  
>  _xiāojīn_ is a play on Baze's nickname for Jyn, Jyn-feather. Apparently it also sounds like the Mandarin word for "be careful" which I find endlessly amusing.  
>  _Bèndàn_ is a term of endearment (???) that means "stupid egg" I think? Very confusing but hilarious.   
> _lao gong_ is husband/dear husband I believe :)))
> 
> I have nothing immediately planned for this 'verse, but I can't imagine I'll be able to leave it alone entirely. For now I'm working on some stuff for the spiritassassin exchange (the reveals are April 10 I believe), and then I want to finish the Baze-pov companion piece to "like a river" and THEN MAYBE I'll have time to actually sit down and plan the teenage roadtrip au that's been plaguing me this last week. Until then you can find me on the tumblrs at [erebones](http://erebones.tumblr.com). Come say hi and let's be friends!
> 
> ALSO if anyone is curious, [here's](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/158921255795/). my jumbled meta post on the lore of this 'verse. Apologies in advance for it making no sense.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to follow me on [tumblr](http://erebones.tumblr.com) where I yell about Donnie and spiritassassin and Jiang Wen's ears with frightening regularity!


End file.
